#and she’s like light gray maybe a little lavender even

[drolta]

Rinat…my beloved….

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Chapter 2: What A Great Freakin’ Way To Start The Day

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: When you decided to work with Butcher and his merry band of supe hunters to take down Homelander, you never expected to be saddled with a sullen, grumpy, jerk like Soldier Boy when the job was done. The more you’re around him the more you hate him, but you can’t help but wonder, is he really as big a jerk as you think? Reader is a supe with plant powers. This takes place in an AU about a month after the end of The Boys Season 3, in which Butcher has let Soldier Boy continue to work with him on his team. (I'm real bad at summaries, please forgive me!)

Tropes: Enemies to Lovers (Not in this chapter), Age Difference (Reader is in her 20s), Protective Ben/ Soldier Boy,

Word Count: 5.2K

Warnings: I'm going to label this 18+ because Soldier Boy (he's a warning and everyone knows it), swearing, mentions of sex, sexual innuendo, sexual tension. Ben/Soldier Boy might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

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The morning begins the same way it always does, with your neighbor Mike blasting "I Will Always Love You" in his apartment at exactly 8 am just as he had each day since you met two years ago. It was the only constant in your life, but at least you didn't have to use an alarm clock anymore. The sound of Mike belting out the lyrics at the top of his lungs was enough to wake everyone in the whole building, including the people on the eighth floor, five stories above him.

But because Mike bought the super’s probably illegally made cologne and because the super was dating Mike’s mother, something that made you regret supe hearing very much, it never stopped despite the numerous complaints.

Then again it was Annie's favorite thing about sleeping over, she liked to scream the lyrics back at the wall and jump on your bed like a crazy banshee. Honestly you hoped that it would stop after Ben had pretended to be your boyfriend, that Mike would finally figure it out and give up.

Guess not.

You sit up in your bed, stretching your hands over your head while humming the chorus under your breath, but you were more of an ABBA fan. If Mike had decided to serenade you with "Take A Chance On Me" or even Aretha Franklin's "You're All I Need to Get By," you might have looked at him differently.

The memory of the dream of his mullet smothering you in your sleep momentarily passes over your mind, causing a shudder to travel down your spine. Or maybe not.

Your bedroom was similar to your living room, covered in plants. Trailing jasmine and bougainvillea blanketed the wall behind your bed in deep red and white, budding lavender, lilac, and honeysuckle sat in pots along the top of your dresser, and a blush colored rose bush, that never went out of bloom, stood proudly in the corner. The only difference was that there were two large piles of books almost as tall as your ceiling, some old some new, braced beside the rose bush like Roman columns. You kept trying to remember to buy a bookshelf, but each time you thought about going to pick one up, Butcher usually called and asked you to help out. Both piles were covered almost completely in pothos and more hung from the brick walls above your only window, that opened the floor length pale yellow curtains with a flick of your hand.

An annoyed purring sound greets your ears as the honeyed light from the now open window wisps over your covers. Bean, your cat, stalks up from the end of the bed, his yellowed eyes narrowed with annoyance at being woken up so early while his charcoal gray coat turns lighter in the brilliant sunlight. Last night he had been in your bedroom when you got home, which meant that he hadn't been around Ben when he came in.

A good thing, because Bean hated just about everyone except Butcher, which you thought was weird. But whenever Butcher dropped by to talk to you Bean always came over to look for rubs, while hissing at anyone who tried to interrupt them. Hughie was actually afraid of Bean, and because Bean was a cat he immediately picked up on this and purposely would jump on the couch next to Annie so Hughie couldn't sit there, Bean also followed after Hughie to the bathroom and waited outside the door to swipe at his ankles whenever he would come out.

But you didn't love him any less.

He puts his paw on your thigh lightly extending his claws to get your attention.

"Oh are you talking to me now?" You smile, rubbing him behind the ears. "I thought you were angry because I woke you up?"

He purrs and pushes his chunky gray head against your hand, but startles when the song switches to "My Heart Will Go On" which causes Mike's mother to join in to his karaoke session.

I'd move if my apartment wasn't so damn cheap.

"Maybe they should take the show on the road. Huh buddy?"

Bean purrs his response while pushing his head further into your hand.

His mom wasn't that bad of a singer, in fact, you thought that you remembered eavesdropping on a conversation between her and the super when she talked about a career as a cabaret singer a while ago.

"Come on, let's see if Gramps killed any of my plants." You smile down at your cat. "If he did I'm going to turn him into a tree."

Bean purrs in agreement.

You get out of bed, adjusting your shirt back down over your shorts before walking to the door with Bean following behind you. You step out into the cool hallway, with more enthusiasm than usual as you try to escape the butchering of the Titanic's soundtrack and collide into something warm and wet.

It takes you exactly seven seconds to realize that the warm, wet, thing that your face is currently stuck to, is in-fact Ben's chest, his shirtless chest. Why he's standing in the hallway outside your door, soaking wet and wearing a towel you have no idea. All you know is that your face is physically laying against the warm flesh of his pectoral muscles.

"Why are you NAKED?" You scream as you peel yourself off of him and turn your gaze away. Your face felt so warm that it was like you'd been standing in front of a volcano for too long and you were sure that you had blushed to the roots of your hair.

You'd only seen him without his shirt on once, when the door to his bedroom was cracked at the apartment he shared with the rest of the group. But it was from the back and you had been walking by to go to the bathroom, and you hadn't looked…

Well, you may have stopped for a second to admire the powerful muscles on his muscular back and maybe thought about waiting for him to turn around so you could see if the front was as good as the back… but you hadn't.

And he certainly hadn't been soaking wet then, and it made you hate him more now, because no one should look as good as he does soaking wet. You personally knew that you looked like a drowned poodle whenever you stepped out of the shower, but him? Soldier Boy looks like he just finished filming a shampoo commercial.

You could see it in your head, him standing under a crystal blue waterfall with the water splashing against weathered rocks before running through his soft brown hair, curving around his broad shoulders, down his toned stomach straight down to his-

NO. Not gonna go there. You could feel your skin heating in embarrassment, almost as if you thought he could read your mind.

"I'm not naked doll, I mean I could be if you wanted me to." He smirks as he hears your heartbeat begin to pick up and reaches for the end of his towel. The towel that was almost too small to wrap around his waist and left very little to the imagination.

"NO!" You shout holding up a hand to stop him, but again brush the front of his chest.

Fuck, you could zest a lemon on those abs.

"Are you sure?" Ben smiles wider, taking a step forward. He's so close that you can smell your grapefruit mint shampoo on him and feel the humidity and warmth of his body as he stands there. For some reason the fact that he used your shampoo, and smelled like your soap, made you feel warm and tingly. It was almost hypnotic. You hated how much you liked it. "Because you're turning that cute little red color you always do whenever I'm around, and your heartbeat is kinda fast."

"No. I don't." You grit your teeth together. "Why are you standing outside of my door naked?"

"Maybe I was waiting for you to come out." His hand presses against the doorway next to your head. "You know, I already took a shower, but if you wanted I'd be happy to get back in with you."

"No thanks. I don't need a shower and I wouldn't shower with you if it was the last shower on earth and I hadn't bathed in forty years." You purse your lips. "Oh right, that happened to you."

Ben frowns at your mention of his time in Russia. You didn't often tease him about being trapped in a lab, you knew that it was a sore spot for him. Plus you'd seen the footage of exactly what those doctors did to him and it was enough to make you want to book a one way ticket to Russia and personally show them what happened when a tree got shoved up your ass.

You open your mouth to apologize.

"I was going to ask if you have any other clothes here. Mine are still wet from last night." He raises an eyebrow, but the humor is gone from his eyes.

"Oh. Um. I can take a look." You turn and walk into your bedroom, trying not to feel awkward about bringing up the lab.

He was a jerk, but he didn't deserve a reminder of how shitty the last forty years have been.

Truthfully, you weren't sure if you had anything that would fit him. Ben was a lot bigger than you, taller and broader. You usually did wear things that were a little big for you, but you didn't think that Ben would fit in any of them.

Maybe I have something from when my brother was here last time.

Darren often dropped by when he was in the city visiting his friends or had a new "business" venture. The ones that never seemed to last and the friends that always seemed happy to spend the moan you "loaned" him for his "best idea yet" as he always phrased it. But he hadn't been by in at least a year.

"It's really green in here too." You hear Ben say under his breath.

You didn't think that he was going to follow you into your room, you thought he was going to stay in the hallway, but no, he had followed you. And he made the room feel even smaller than it was with his broad shoulders and over six foot stature.

The sunlight from the window glinted off his still wet chest and it made your throat uncomfortably tight. For the love of chocolate pudding, WHY does he look so good all the time?

"You can wait in the hall-"

"Wanted to see your bedroom." He smirks. "Though I think that you wanted to show it to me last night-"

You ignore him and turn back to your chest of drawers while Mike and his mother switch to "What Makes You Beautiful" by One Direction. You wince as they begin.

"Do they always do that?" Ben asks.

"Yep. Since I moved in." You sigh, shuffling through your t-shirts.

"He's really got it bad Sweetheart. Maybe you should throw him a bone. Kinda seems like the poor guy needs to get some ass-"

"If it's any of your business- which it's not- I do not like him that way."

"Well they're a little loud." You feel Ben take a step closer to you. "But I bet you and I could give them a run for their money. We are in your bedroom after all, might as well make the most of it."

"I didn't know that you liked Karaoke. I'll keep that in mind for you 105th birthday party."

"What? No I meant-"

Bean purrs loudly from his position on your bed and you wait for the telltale sound of Ben shooing him away when Bean tries to puncture Ben's impenetrable skin with his claws, but it doesn't come.

You glance over your shoulder. Are you kidding me?

Bean is sitting on your white plush comforter, rubbing up against Ben's hand, purring while Ben scratches him behind the ears.

Traitor.

"Didn't know you had a cat." Ben says continuing to stroke his hand down Bean's spine, who stands up and turns so Ben can have a better angle.

"I didn't peg you for a cat person. Kinda ruins the whole all-American Man image you have going on."

He shrugs. "I like dogs more, but I don't hate cats. Usually they don't like me very much."

"I wonder why that is." You grumble watching Bean lean into Ben's hand again. "His name is Bean."

"Bean? Why?"

"Because when I got him I was trying to grow green beans in the linen closet and he would sit outside the door and screech until I gave him a green bean to play with."

"You were trying to grow green beans in the linen closet?"

"Yeah. Seemed like a good idea, but they like the bathroom more-" You finally find the oversized Led Zeppelin shirt your brother left the last time he crashed at your apartment and a pair of jeans. "A lot of my plants like the bathroom more actually."

"I was going to ask you why the bathroom floor and wall was squishy."

"It's moss. It thrives in humid environments." You hold out the clothes for him.

"Uh-huh." He frowns at the clothes for a minute. "So you're saying you wouldn't want a guy to serenade you like that?" Ben nods his head towards your bedroom wall, just as Mike and his mother begin to belt out the chorus. "Thought girls liked sappy shit."

"I'm not a fan of One Direction."

"Right. You like ABBA more." Ben turns towards your door to go back to the bathroom to change.

Shock momentarily spikes in your chest. "How did you know that?"

He freezes as if you caught him doing something bad, turning slightly towards you. "Um- well, you hum their songs a lot."

"When?" You cross your arms over your chest.

"Whenever you're on stake outs. Sometimes when you're reading those files or waiting for Annie at the apartment." He shrugs. “When you were walking last night you were humming ‘Fernando.’"

He noticed that?

"How long exactly were you following me?"

"Long enough." He raises an eyebrow. "Are you trying to keep me talking because you want me to change in here? Because I would be more than happy to drop this towel and show you what a real man looks like Sweetheart."

"Don't flatter yourself Gramps. If you drop that towel the only thing that'll happen is Bean will think you brought him a green bean to play with." You roll your eyes. "Now get out of my room. I have to change."

Ben begins to say something, but the vines hanging above the door push him out into the hall and shut the door behind him.

That felt good.

After you put on a white t-shirt, your favorite pair of jean overalls and your dark green converse, you make your way out into the living room. Ben is there, lounging on your couch like he owns it. He’s wearing the jeans and t-shirt you gave him, but you can't help but notice how the clothes are just a little too small for him. The way his muscles pull at the t-shirt, the way the jeans hug his thighs and butt-

He's getting way too comfortable here. You think to yourself to avoid the thought of how good he looks on your couch. How it almost feels natural that he's sitting here in your living room, inhabiting your space.

"So what's for breakfast doll face?" He leans his head back to gaze at you with a mischievous smile that makes a warm tingle travel down the length of your spine.

"Well, I'm going to have oatmeal and you're going to have whatever you want I guess?"

His eyes darken. "Whatever I want?"

"Calm down Gramps I meant that there's cereal in the cabinet." You roll your eyes to avoid thinking about the kiss last night and then thinking about how it felt for your body to be pressed against his in the hallway when you ran into him.  Which inevitably leads back to the waterfall fantasy and-

No. No. Not going to do that. Not with him. He's just good at getting women into bed, he doesn't care about you. You think about how he remembered that you liked ABBA. That doesn't mean anything. He doesn't see me as anything more than a conquest and he probably remembered that because he's changing tactics and trying not to act like a creep.

“You’re not going to pour me a bowl?” His smirk pulls down in an attractive pout.

“I think it’s simple enough for your little brain to do.” You don’t turn around from the kitchen cabinets, grabbing a raspberry from the refrigerator and popping it in your mouth. For some reason you noticed that whatever you grew tasted better than anything you bought at the grocery store. You hoped that it didn’t mean that your powers supercharged whatever you grew and that it was actually radioactive or something. 

Because that’s exactly what I need, to turn bright green. 

“There’s nothing little about me doll.” 

“Can’t you ever have a conversation with someone without it revolving around sex?” You grumble banging around in your cabinets to find your instant oatmeal. 

It was a valid point and you were tired of getting whiplash every time Ben acted caring and then flipping back to horny manchild.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Ben laughs. He stands from the couch and makes his way into your kitchen.

It was hard not to notice how small each room in your apartment looked with him in it. His head was only a foot below the ceiling, not to mention the kitchen was only composed of six cabinets, a small sink, a microwave shoved into a corner, a stove top, and a refrigerator that only came up to Ben’s shoulders. Your bathroom was worse, sometimes the shower was small even for you and you didn’t know how Ben fit in there. 

He probably had to duck down to stand under the shower head. 

And then as you thought that, the image of Ben standing under a waterfall comes creeping back, making the strawberry plant on top of the fridge, the raspberry vines, and the blackberry vines covering your refridgerator burst into bloom.

Thankfully Ben didn’t notice, because he was rooting through the white top cabinet in the corner for one of the cereal boxes. 

I’d never hear the end of it if he saw that happen. 

You glare at the plants in question, eyes shifting to a deep green as the flowers develop into fresh fruit to cover your slip. 

Ben pulls out a box of Lucky Charms, but frowns at Lucky on the front cover, who is throwing a handful of marshmallow charms into the air around him. 

Guess he's not a fan.

 “If I’d known you were going to sleep on my couch I would have gotten Bran flakes and prunes for you.” You smirk as you pour water over the oats in the bowl before placing it in the microwave to cook. “I know people your age need that kind of thing sometimes. Gets the bowel moving.”

“Make fun of my age all you want.” Ben steps around you to grab the almost empty bottle of milk from your refrigerator. “One day you’ll be happy to find out just how experienced I am.”

“Keep dreaming.”

His dark eyes meet yours. “You’re all I dream about baby.”

You can feel his breath on the side of your neck from how close he is to you, the kitchen seems smaller than it ever has, and he leans forward, sensing your hesitation. One of his hands goes on the kitchen counter to your right, the other places the milk down and then braces on the counter to your left caging you against him. 

“Do any of your lines actually work?” You say, throat tight.

“You’d be surprised.” He smirks wider, green eyes sliding up and down your body. 

 The air in the kitchen electrifies, something passing through the air between the two of you that makes you feel like your heart is going to burst out of your chest. His eyes are softer green now, reminding you of the color of fresh leaves on an oak tree in spring, bright, strong, and full of life. His body is pressed gently against yours, the strong muscles of his abdomen laying on your hips, muscular arms making sure that you don't walk away.

You try not to think again about how good he looks in your apartment, how calm and relaxed he seems when he’s away from Butcher and not wearing his uniform. 

Standing here in your apartment, he looked normal, human. Sometimes it was hard to remember that you were, when you could do what you did, when you saw him get hit with a car and shove it away with one hand. 

He was still ridiculously attractive, the kind of attractive that you’d read in romance novels and in classic Roman literature, the kind of beautiful that people wrote poetry about, the kind of ruggedly handsome that made smart girls stupid. 

You were really feeling that last one. Because you were desperately trying to hold on to your dream of being with someone that understood every part of you, but Ben was making it hard.

It wasn’t that the idea of sleeping with him was terrible. It wasn’t. It was far from terrible it was the idea of having sex without feelings that you didn’t like. You didn’t want to sleep with him because you knew that he only saw you as something to be possessed not as an equal or someone he cared about. Soldier Boy only cared about himself, that was apparent.

He’s only interested in you because you haven’t given in. You think to yourself. It's all about the thrill of the chase, nothing else. I'm worth more than that. I'm worth more than one night.

“In fact, I think it’s working on you doll.” Ben leans down towards you so close you can feel his words in the air between your faces, his eyes searching yours as if waiting for you to say no.

That made you pause. Ben didn’t seem to be the type of man who was patient. You’d walked in on him making out with numerous women on the couch back at the apartment he shared with the rest of the team, saw how he took control, saw how he didn’t seem to wait for them to say no or really say anything at all. Not to mention one time when you walked into the shared apartment and could hear Ben with one of his "dates" in his bedroom. Nothing about that seemed patient at all.

But this Ben standing in your kitchen was different. He was almost smiling, dark hair still damp from the shower curling on his forehead, the t-shirt damp around the collar, jeans a dark blue, and the smell of your shampoo fills your senses again all over again. It made you wish for this person all the time. The one that you could see yourself falling in love with, not the racist, sexist, and inappropriate jerk that seemed to dominate his persona at all other parts of the day.

Funny, the only time you’d ever seen Ben like this, was when the two of you were alone- well sometimes- other times he annoyed you without end and made you want to jump out a window. 

But why? Why only around me?

The feeling in your chest grows. It jumps from synapse to synapse, pulses along your skin, buzzes in your blood, tangles through your hair, and radiates through the air like a sound wave. Your eyes drift down to his lips remembering exactly what it was like to kiss him last night. How he seemed to consume you whole, how everything else fell away, how Ben curled himself around you, how he-

Your cell phone rings, breaking through the moment, and making you remember exactly why you didn’t want to give in to Ben and remember the kind of person he was. 

You push him away and pull your cellphone out of your pocket. Butcher's photo and name appear on the screen.

Shit.

"Hey Butch, what's up?" You look away from Ben, forcing yourself to calm your racing heart.

Ben perks up at the mention of Butcher’s name.

“Do you have any idea where Soldier Boy is?”

“Soldier Boy?”

“Seems like our blunt smoking man out of time has vanished. Been trying to text him all bloody morning.”

At least he doesn’t know that Ben is here. That’s good. I’d never hear the end of it if-

Ben snatches the phone from your hand and holds it up to his ear. “What the fuck do you want?”

The softness was gone, his eyes had hardened again, and the spell was broken. Ben was no longer relaxed, his shoulders were tensed and guarded, jaw set.

It didn’t take a genius to know that Ben didn’t like Butcher. Sometimes you wondered why Ben decided to stay.

Probably because the alternative was being frozen like Han Solo next to his son.

When Ben had knocked Homelander out, you hadn’t believed it, and despite Ben’s arguing Butcher wanted to keep Homelander a supe, and just put him on ice. You had no idea why, especially since Butcher had been gunning for him forever, but had the sneakiest suspicion that it was because of Ryan.

But you didn't blame Butcher for that, watching your father get killed in front of you seemed traumatic, not to mention Ryan was still reeling from watching his mother die.

You turn back to your microwave to pull out your bowl of oatmeal with a groan.

Now Butcher’s going to mock me endlessly about going home with Soldier Boy. We didn’t do anything! Well…

Your mind flits back to the searing kiss you shared and to five seconds ago when whatever the hell just happened.

“You want me to meet you in fucking Jersey?” Ben laughs.

You choose not to eavesdrop on the conversation, instead you busy yourself with sprinkling brown sugar onto your breakfast and plucking a few more raspberries from the vines.

“Fine.” Ben almost growls before holding out the phone to you. “He wants to talk to you.”

Of course he does. Maybe I can pretend to lose the signal with a piece of paper or a candy wrapper.

“Hello-“

“You crazy wanker.” Butcher chuckles into the phone. “Guess your night was a little more exciting than mine eh? Oi Hughie, you owe me a tener!” He shouts to Hughie who you can guess is sitting nearby.

“What? He’s with y/n! No way!” You hear Hughie shout back, muffled but there.

Damn it he’s gonna tell Annie. She's going to start sending me pictures of babies photoshopped in supe suits.

“You guys were betting that he was here?!” You shout making eye contact with Ben who only smirks before he busies himself with getting a bowl for his cereal.

“He left about two minutes after you did. Said some bullshit about a smoke break.” Butcher is smiling and you know it. “How was he? Was he as good as all the girls say?" Butcher coos on the other side of the line.

“Nothing happened-“

“Sure it didn’t Cherie!” You hear Frenchie crow. “Hopefully you got to relieve some of that tension no?”

“I hate all of you.” You grumble, and before Butcher can say anything else you hang up the phone and glare at Ben. “This is your fault.”

“What do you mean sweetheart?”

“You just had to follow me home!”

“You shouldn’t have been walking out there alone.”

“I do it all the time!”

“Not anymore.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not going to let you walk around alone in the middle of the night.”

"Like hell. I don't need a babysitter!"

"I think you do-"

"No I don't. In fact why are you still here? Why haven't you left?" You shout, snatching your bowl of oatmeal before moving to the wobbly kitchen table that you smooshed up against a window that looks out onto your fire escape.

"Because I tend to like morning sex. It's a great way to start the day. Thought you'd be interested." Ben winks as he sits across from you, barely fitting in the wooden chair.

Your phone buzzes where it sits on the table beside your bowl. When you flip it over, you see the text from Annie.

Annie: YOU SLEPT WITH SOLDIER BOY?!!!!

You: I'm not going to dignify that with a response.

Annie: That's a yes. TELL ME EVERYTHING!!!

You sigh and shovel a spoonful of oatmeal into your mouth, eyes drifting up to the top of your phone screen focusing on the time.

"SHIT! I'm late for work!" You shout before shoving as much oatmeal as you can into your mouth.

"Work?" Ben looks up from his bowl of cereal confused as you begin to run around the room.

The half-eaten bowl of oatmeal falls into the sink with a resounding crash, Bean's cat food lands haphazardly in his bright green food dish, and you practically run to your tote bag that hangs on a peg by your front door.

"I told you. I work at a plant shop." You glance back at your barren coffee maker mournfully. The thought of trying to get through the day without coffee seemed impossible, not to mention you didn’t have time to grab one on the way to work from your favorite shop just around the corner.

"I thought you were joking."

"No. Some of us have to work for a living." You run your fingers through your hair quickly pulling it back in a loose ponytail.

"You should leave your hair down." Ben says from the table watching you.

"What?"

"It's prettier when it's down."

"I don't have time for your misogynistic comments. Come on let's go."

"What?"

"I'm not going to leave you here in my apartment alone. You don't have a key."

"You could give me yours-"

"HA. No that's not going to happen. Come on." You tug on his muscular arm, trying to get him up out of the chair, but he barely moves.

“You know you could call out of work and we could spend the day in bed.” He smiles, eyes tracing your figure. “I mean you look good baby, but I think you'd look even better naked. Plus, Butcher and the rest of those fuckers already think we slept together so we might as well-“

“Not a chance Gramps. Either get up out of the chair and leave through the door or leave through the window. It’s your choice and I have no qualms with throwing you down to the street. But please don't make me do that because I can't afford a new window."

Ben rolls his eyes, but finally gets up to follow you. He actually tries to open the door for you, but you place your hand on his chest.

“Nah uh uh. Bowl in the sink. I’m not going to clean up after you.”

Ben sighs and mumbles something under his breath that’s lost in Mike’s inhuman screech of “Love on Top.”

Yeah. What a great fucking way to start the day.

Thank you so much for reading! If you'd like to be added to my taglist for this series let me know :)

(Photos for series picture found on Pinterest)

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[kathlare]

bed chem

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: In the heart of New York City, a shared moment of creativity blossoms between Amelie and Lando.

Wordcount: 1.7 k

Warnings: some mature comments

full masterlist // request over here!

May 10th, 2024 - New York City, NY

Amelie’s apartment in New York was a reflection of her: eclectic, warm, and effortlessly stylish. The faint sound of cars honking from the streets below filtered in through slightly cracked windows, mixing with the soft hum of music from the speakers. Benny, her docile gray ragdoll cat, was sprawled out on Lando’s lap, purring contentedly while Björn darted around, chasing a piece of crumpled paper he’d stolen from the counter.

—This is it. I’m never leaving,— Lando announced dramatically, running a hand through Benny’s silky fur. He leaned back on the couch, his legs stretched out, looking entirely too comfortable in his sweatpants and hoodie. —I’ll just move in and live here with you and Benny. Björn can have the couch.—

—Björn wouldn’t let you, even if you begged,— Amelie teased, leaning against the kitchen counter, a mug of tea in her hands. —He barely tolerates me most days.—

As if on cue, Björn darted up to Amelie, swiped at her ankle playfully, and bolted off again. She rolled her eyes but smiled, taking a sip of her tea.

Lando watched her, a mischievous glint in his eyes. —Speaking of begging…—

Amelie groaned, already sensing where this was going. —No. Absolutely not.—

—Oh, come on!— Lando set Benny down gently and stood, crossing the room in a few quick strides. He stopped in front of her, hands pressed together like he was praying. —Just one song. Please, Ames. I’ve been patient. I didn’t say anything when you wouldn’t show me snippets during the gala. I deserve this.—

—You deserve nothing, Norris,— Amelie said, her tone playful but firm. She turned back toward the kitchen, but he followed her like a shadow, practically clinging to her side.

—Not even a little sneak peek?— he pressed, leaning down slightly to meet her gaze.

Amelie sighed, setting her mug down. —You’re impossible.—

—But you like it,— he said with a cheeky grin.

—Unfortunately, yes,— she muttered, pretending to think it over. Finally, she threw her hands up. —Fine. One song. But no commentary until it’s over. And if you don’t like it, you’re not allowed to say anything.—

—Deal.— Lando’s grin widened, boyish and triumphant.

She grabbed her keys from the counter, motioning for him to follow. —Come on. Studio’s downstairs.—

The small recording studio was tucked into the building’s lower level, a cozy space filled with instruments, stacks of notebooks, and the faint scent of coffee and lavender. Lando looked around, curiosity lighting up his face as he ran a hand over the keys of a piano.

Amelie booted up her laptop, scrolling through files until she found the one she was looking for. —Okay, sit there,— she instructed, pointing to the small couch in the corner. —And no interrupting.—

—You’ve got my full attention, Ames,— Lando said, holding up his hands innocently before plopping down.

The room filled with the soft opening chords of Bed Chem. Amelie glanced at Lando as the first lines played, his expression instantly shifting. His posture straightened, his eyes fixed on her, and his lips parted slightly as the lyrics began to sink in.

"I was in a sheer dress the day that we met We were both in a rush, we talked for a sec You're friendin' me up so we could connect And what are the odds? You sent me a text…"

His brows lifted, a mix of surprise and amusement washing over his face.

Amelie didn’t look at him directly, choosing instead to focus on organizing some papers on the desk. She knew this song would catch him off guard—it was personal, maybe the most personal thing she’d written.

As the song reached the chorus, she chanced a glance at him.

"Who's the cute boy with the white jacket And the thick accent? Like… Maybe it's all in my head But I bet we'd have really good bed chem…"

Lando’s jaw dropped slightly. —Wait… what?— he muttered, breaking the no-interruption rule.

Amelie paused the track, spinning her chair to face him. —What? You don’t like it?—

—Are you joking? I... This is... You wrote this about me?— he stammered, running a hand through his hair as a slow grin spread across his face.

—Maybe,— Amelie said coyly, her cheeks warming under his intense gaze.

Lando stood, crossing the room in two long strides. He stopped just short of her, his hands finding the arms of her chair as he leaned down. —“Bed chem”? That’s a bold lyric, Ames.—

—Bold, but accurate,— she shot back, her voice steady despite the way her heart was racing.

Lando stared at her for a moment before letting out a low laugh. —You’re something else, you know that?—

—Takes one to know one, Norris.—

He tilted his head, his blue eyes locking onto hers. —You’re obsessed with me. Admit it.—

—You’re the one who begged to hear my songs,— Amelie countered, her voice dropping slightly, teasing.

Lando’s gaze flicked to her lips for a brief moment before meeting her eyes again. —You’re right. I did. And now… I think I’m even more obsessed with you than before.—

Before she could respond, he closed the gap between them, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that was anything but soft. It was intense, consuming, his hands sliding from the chair’s arms to cup her face as he deepened it.

Amelie responded in kind, her hands finding their way to his hoodie, pulling him closer. The kiss was electric, charged with every unspoken word and emotion they hadn’t yet voiced. When they finally broke apart, both were breathless, their foreheads resting together.

—So, you liked the song then?— Amelie asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

—Ames,— Lando murmured, his voice rough, —I fucking loved it.—

Amelie smirked, still catching her breath, her fingers playing with the hem of Lando’s hoodie. —That’s a relief. Would’ve been awkward if you didn’t.—

—Oh, it’s awkward alright,— Lando teased, his voice low, his accent. His hands slid from her face to rest on her waist, his thumbs brushing lightly against the soft fabric of her shirt. —You just casually dropped a song about us and acted like it was nothing.—

—It’s not nothing,— Amelie replied, her tone matching his, teasing and bold. Her hands slipped under his hoodie, her palms skimming his stomach, which tensed under her touch. —I just thought you deserved a little surprise. That’s all.—

—A little surprise?— he echoed, laughing under his breath. His lips brushed against hers, feather-light, as he whispered, —You know what you’re doing to me, don’t you?—

Her smile widened as she leaned in, kissing him again, slower this time, savoring the way his hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer. His touch was possessive, but not demanding; it was like he was savoring the moment as much as she was.

Lando broke the kiss, trailing his lips down her jaw to her neck, leaving a path of soft kisses that made her shiver. —You drive me insane, Ames,— he murmured against her skin, his voice muffled but no less intense.

Amelie tilted her head back slightly, giving him more access, her fingers curling into the waistband of his sweatpants. —You say that like it’s a bad thing,— she teased, though her voice came out breathier than she intended.

Lando chuckled, the sound vibrating against her neck. —Not bad. Just dangerous. Very, very dangerous.—

—And here I thought you liked living on the edge,— Amelie quipped, though her playful tone faltered as his lips found a particularly sensitive spot just below her ear.

Lando pulled back slightly, his eyes darkening as they met hers. —I do. Especially when it’s with you.—

Amelie’s heart raced as he pulled her to her feet, his hands steady on her waist. Their faces were inches apart, and the intensity in his gaze sent a thrill through her. Without breaking eye contact, he guided her backward until she was pressed against the edge of the desk.

—You’re trouble,— he said, his voice husky, a teasing smile tugging at his lips as his hands slid under her shirt, his touch warm against her skin.

—Takes one to know one,— she whispered, pulling him closer by the drawstrings of his hoodie.

Lando captured her lips in another kiss, this one deeper, more urgent. His hands roamed her back, her sides, exploring in a way that left her breathless. Amelie’s fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently, earning a low groan from him that sent heat coursing through her.

The world outside the studio faded away, leaving only the two of them, completely lost in each other. Lando’s kisses grew more intense, his hands bolder as he lifted her onto the desk effortlessly. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, their bodies pressed together in perfect sync.

—Ames,— he murmured against her lips, his voice ragged, filled with longing.

—What?— she asked, her own voice unsteady as she looked into his eyes, her cheeks flushed.

He smirked, brushing a strand of hair from her face. —I bet we’d have really good bed chem.—

Amelie laughed softly, pulling him back into another kiss. —Only one way to find out, Norris.—

[kalmiaphlox]

The Perfect Girl

AO3 Link / Masterlist

There's still one piece not in place. Astarion holds his hand out, flexing his fingers, a devious grin upon his face. “Your panties, please.” With a roll of her eyes and a muttered, “Insatiable…” Hircine peels off her sheer panties, slapping them into his awaiting hand. They're damp. 

Having been married for a while now, Astarion has learned all the inner workings of his wife, Hircine, quite well he thinks, but tonight, something is... off, be it her scent or mood, that woman just isn't right.

He'll get to the bottom of it one way or another, and if he gets to play with her tits, then all the better.

Pairing: Astarion x Named Female Tav (Hircine)

WC: 4.9k

Main Tags: Fluff, Smut, Body Worship, Focus on BOOBS, BREASTS and TITTIES, Mild Praise Kink, Mild Scent Kink, Thigh Riding, Breast fucking, a little Panty thievery, Established Relationship

Sharp, full-bodied and extra sweet, something about her scent changed.

Anytime in the last two days that his wife drifts by, Astarion’s mouth waters and his head follows her path unconsciously. It can’t be a new perfume, there’s nothing artificial about this enticing smell.

Nothing out of the ordinary was eaten recently, there’s been no strange happenings in the mines, and Hircine’s not even particularly burdened these days, so what’s caused this alteration?

He likes it, obviously, but he needs to know why.

Tonight, Hircine lounges on the sofa in one of those short, tulle nightgowns she likes that tend to flounce around with her every dainty movement. The sleeves are long, the collar and hem ruffled and the pale pink color gives her a playful aura that offsets her ever-present seriousness. Her gray hair spills out all across her back and arms, not held back by any of the pins and ties that keep it out of her face during work hours.

She was moody today, if not outright snappy, and now she lays chest down, running a hand along the rug with her bare legs in his lap while Astarion translates some abyssal documents, occasionally sneaking glances to figure out his approach. Her irritation waned once they left the mines so maybe work stressed her out, but if Hircine’s weighed down, there is a sure fire way to relieve that tension—for both of them, because it’s hard work suffering this mood.

Clearing his throat, Astarion sets down the parchments and quill on the end table. “Love,” the point of an ear angles in his direction a few degrees to indicate she’s listening, the brat. “Will you come here?”

He can hear the quietest indignant exhalation as Hircine pushes herself up and turns around to crawl over to his side, leaning all her weight against his arm. “Mm?” She huffs.

What is this absolute creature of a woman?

Patting his lap, Astarion smiles tightly, muzzling the urge to be snippy back. “Sit, please.”

Thankfully, she doesn’t question his words and swings a leg over, straddling his lap so the nightdress bunches up around her toned thighs. The gold ring of her hazy lavender eyes reflects the light as they dart around anywhere but at him, and the full bottom lip juts out in the smallest pout.

No one would guess she’s almost one hundred and fifty with this childish attitude.

He rests his hands on her shoulders, rubbing up and down along the soft fabric of the nightdress. “What’s wrong, pet? You’ve been… under a rain cloud all day.” She frowns in response. Gods below. Dropping his hands to her thighs, Astarion tries again. “Are you in pain?”

Hircine twists her lips. “No…”

At least it’s words this time.

He slides up over her hips, running his thumbs along her smooth belly, feeling how she quivers at the touch though the frown sticks to her face. Now she’s just being difficult. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” she says simply.

Easy enough.

Cupping her shapely breasts, Astarion squeezes them together, flicking the pad of his thumbs over her peaked nipples. Her thighs clamp down over his legs and she keens softly.

Hmm, something’s off. They feel different, and while Hircine loves having her breasts touched, she doesn’t react this strongly to it.

“Not that I’m necessarily an expert on your tits, love, but they’re… heavier than usual.”

Her face flushes a plummy hue that makes his fangs ache, and oh, isn’t it so obvious? Hircine swallows audibly. “It’s just that time for me.”

“I thought you didn’t experience menstruation.”

“Not exactly. The magic stops the bleeding part, not the… hormones.” So none of the fun, how boring.

He leans forward, trailing his nose along her jawline to inhale her heady aroma. Fuck, it’s good. “That explains why you smell so delightful then. I’ve been losing my mind over this.” Giving her breasts another firm squeeze, she whimpers, maybe a little too pitifully and Astarion releases her, concern stomping all over his lusty intentions. “I'm not hurting you, am I?”

“They're jus’ sens'tive.” Hircine mumbles.

“Is that so?” Is it strange to admit he likes whiny Hircine? She's always so uptight and repressed with her desires, avoiding being too loud or saying exactly what she wants. He needs to coax those wants and needs out of her with each meticulously placed touch.

Her hands find his under the layers of tulle, placing them back on her chest as she stumbles over her words. “No, I—I want you to—to, uh, touch them—me.”

“Gently?” Astarion asks.

“N-No, harder. Please.”

He freezes, all sound drowning out by the roar of blood rushing past his ears. His wife, Hircine, the uncompromising business woman who never asks for anything, asked for him to be rough.

To her lovely, perfect tits.

If words like that aren't meant to break a man, then what can?

Such a sight should be complimented by her bouncing on his thick cock while inarticulate moans and sighs of pleasure ring out into the room, but they aren't there yet.

That doesn’t mean they can’t play in other ways.

Astarion grasps her breasts, kneading the buttery flesh with amusement at how unusually swollen they are—overflowing handfuls, and he brings his mouth over where one of those tender buds lies beneath her nightdress, latching onto it through the fabric. She rocks in his lap, and he pulls her forward squeezing her tight against him before calming those movements to brush their lips together. “Slow yourself, love.”

Hircine pulls away, clearly displeased. “Why?”

He smiles, all sharp fangs and hunger, squeezing her tits with enough force that her breath catches in her throat and then Astarion lets go, a flood of remorse at no longer holding them. “Get up.” He commands. “We're going to have some fun.”

Quick to listen, Hircine takes to her feet, heavy lidded with want as she stares at him, awaiting further instruction.

“Take it off.” His hand flicks in her direction. She looks down, grabbing the hem of her dress, holding it out as if to say ‘This?’ and he nods. As if it could be anything else.

Lifting her hands, Hircine deftly unhooks the collar from the back, pulling the fabric forward over her shoulders so it drops to the ground where the fabric pools into a pink puddle at her feet. A satisfied hum slips past his lips as he takes her form in. Slim and graceful, the silhouette of his wife’s body haloed by the fire is all soft curves and toned muscles crafted from years of dancing and sword play. Narrow shoulders, thin waist, rounded hips covered by sheer lacy panties, all places he'd like to run his tongue and fingers—another time. Astarion’s focus has been drawn elsewhere for the night.

“Face that way.” He points to his right and she does so without question. Trailing down from the flutter of her lashes, to the sharp edge of the clavicle, his eyes alight at the top of her breasts, following along to the slightly upturned points of those delectably tightened nipples, the same ghostly white as her mouth—he tries not to think about it too often, it works him into an insatiable frenzy when she forgoes her usual dark lipstick.

It's factually untrue. I am an expert on her tits.

They are bigger—fuller, only just so. Any lesser man or woman wouldn't notice, but Astarion spends plenty of time touching, staring… occasionally tasting. How could he not see the change?

Well, he didn't, did he? Though he can pinpoint why.

“It must have been terribly uncomfortable for you throughout the night, when your dresses are all tailored perfectly to your measurements. Poor things were smothered in all that tight cloth.” He tuts sympathetically as he stands, crossing to her side silently. With gentle hands, Astarion turns Hircine towards the fireplace, feeling as the radiating heat warms her soft skin while he glides his palms down her arms and back up to her neck, brushing gray strands of hair aside before moving to her jawline to tilt her head back against his shoulder. Their lips meet, melding together in a slow, roiling passion that will lead down a path of no return should they continue. The taste of her is so light and refreshing as he flicks his tongue against the pursed seam of her mouth.

Astarion breaks away, planting some tender kisses along the crook of her shoulder, hooking his arms under hers and cupping her breasts once again as he does, swaying them from palm to the tips of his fingers to feel their weight.

Delightful.

Oh, to sink his fangs into the soft flesh of one, draining every last drop of blood until she's just a lifeless corpse... Not the best or most wanted idea, but fuck if it doesn't make him hard.

Hircine looks down at his ministrations in puzzlement, finding his current actions underwhelming. Astarion grins against her shoulder blade, playfully jiggling her breasts in his hands so they ripple and bounce.

An unamused glare is flashed his way, but all it does is make him laugh and nuzzle against her cheek. “I’m just letting Belbol and Iiyola breathe, pet. It’s no surprise you were feeling so poorly today…” And finding himself merciful, Astarion decides she deserves what she asked for.

‘Harder.’

Taking her pert nipples between his thumb and forefinger, he twists and pulls. The sweet songbird cry that erupts from Hircine is cut short when she claps a hand over her mouth, falling limply back against his chest.

Well, that just won’t do.

He drops his hold on her to force Hircine to stand on her own, moving away with hands on hips, clicking his tongue in disappointment. “Hircine, my love, I won’t tolerate any quietness tonight. If I’m touching you, I had better hear it.”

“But—” She starts to say and Astarion wags a finger in her face. “No ‘buts’! We both know the servant’s won’t step foot out here. I want to hear you, and you will be heard. Understood?”

She chews on her lip and nods. “Yes, Husband.”

What a chore it’s been, ignoring his own arousal but Hircine being obedient is too much. Whiny, begging, obedient… Maybe he just likes Hircine doing anything. The confines of his pants is unbearable now and as much as he’d like to only please his wife, it feels a little unfair to be left out of all the fun, not that he’s missing out on anything playing with her tits.

Astarion jerks his chin up slightly, tapping his chest haughtily. “You know, I’m also starting to feel a little restrained… There must be something in the air. Strip me down, love.”

The powerful shiver that tracks down her body at his words leaves Astarion biting back a moan. How can she be so perfect for him? Needy and wanting, only ever bowing to his demands. Pliable, malleable, flexible. She’s all of that and more.

Like annoyingly tight-lipped for everything except his cock.

Stepping forward, Hircine closes the gap between them, the heat from her body leaching into his skin through his clothes. What control he has to not pull her flush against him, to feel her breasts pressed against his chest as he grinds his throbbing erection into her hips, anything so Hircine knows how he hungers—yearns for her.

Instead, Astarion fastidiously watches her hands as they rise up under his chin, taking the blue cotton collar of his shirt between her trembling fingers, sliding down to the first button which she carefully undoes while her glowing gold eyes flick back and forth between his face and the task at hand. Another button is unhooped, then another until Hircine reaches the hem of his shirt, fiddling with each side almost shyly.

Her heart is hammering in her chest, sending a beating upon her poor rib cage in its fraught attempt to escape from Hircine's body, breaths shallow and quick as she pushes the cotton from his shoulders.

To take her in his hands… He wants it. He needs it.

The shirt falls away from him with ease, dropping to the floor. “Oh, good girl.” Astarion praises, drinking in the way she trembles with excitement, a leaf rustling in the wind. Then he rushes forward, taking a fistful of Hircine’s thick hair to wrench her head back and slam their lips together, tongue demanding entry to her mouth.

Ever eager to receive, Hircine opens for him, letting their tongues tangle together. Warm and inviting, decadent and soft, they share breath, taste and fervent affection.

His darling wife, putty in his capable hands.

Physically that is. Astarion still doesn't have her heart, not yet, not truly.

But I will. Whatever it takes.

Taking a plush lip between his teeth, he pulls, tugging on it gently while keeping a firm grip on her hair. A mesmerizing whine escapes Hircine’s throat and Astarion swallows it, claiming her mouth once again. Gods, she smells of berries plucked fresh from the vine muddled with spices, and the taste… like a rich barrel aged wine with hints of oak and tannin upon his tongue. Divine, this wife of his is.

It’s time to get back to business though.

They separate, panting for breath, foreheads pressed together and Astarion presses his lips to her cute nose. “My beautiful girl,” his hands once again find her breasts, thumbs circling her areolas with a contained passion. He makes an amendment, giving her tits a playful squeeze. “My beautiful girls.” Hircine flutters her lashes, hiding any annoyance at his statement, not that she’s ever seemed to care much where his fixation is concerned.

Bending her backwards till her back arches in a curve, Astarion leans down, taking a tight, pale nipple in his mouth, sucking hard until Hircine gasps out an “Oh, gods, yes!” He pulls back with a satisfied pop, watching her tit bounce in place. They will be feasted on with utmost reverence tonight.

“Can you get the rest of my clothes, love? I want to see how perfect you are on your knees.” His breathy voice whispers across her skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake. If it weren’t for Astarion holding her up, she might have collapsed into a lust-filled pile of limbs at his words with the way she softens in his embrace.

To have his wife be so willing… His cock twitches in his pants at the sight.

Never taking her eyes off his, Hircine slips down to her knees, skimming her delicate fingers along the firm muscles of his abdomen, sparking trails of electricity across his skin. Fingering the edge of his trousers, she looks up, asking silently for permission to continue.

“Good girl. Go on,” Astarion coos and she dives into her task, ripping the end of his belt from the strap, much to his amusement—and disappointment. Astarion pulls his hips back, letting dissatisfaction drip from his words. “Slow down, pet. I need you to take your time.”

Hircine blinks, reigning herself in with a weak nod, ensuring a more appropriate pace is taken to de-clothe him. Belt is discarded and trousers worked down over his hips until they drop to the floor where Astarion steps out of them. Gods, his poor cock is straining against his underwear, leaking pre-cum in its sorry state.

Playing with the elastic band of his underwear, Hircine rises on her knees, dragging her wet tongue from his navel to where she torturously slow reveals the flushed head of his shaft. Her lips are silken as she kisses his cock once and pulls down his underwear completely, much to Astarion’s unquiet relief.

Oh, to fuck that beautiful mouth of hers until she gags…

Next time, he concedes.

“I know you could love on my cock all day,” he starts to say and Hircine nuzzles against his member in agreement, taking him at the base in her warm hands, her pale lavender-gold eyes seek his reactions. His lip is sucked into his mouth, swallowing down a groan when she finds the head again, laying sweet kitten-licks against his glistening slit.

She's so good to me.

A brush of his fingers across her cheekbones and into her marble gray hair that is so pleasing to wind into his hand, Astarion takes a gentle fistful of it and pulls Hircine back so her neck is bared to him, but he doesn't bite. “Like I said, you can do this all day, but that's not what I want right now. Up.” With a tug of her hair, Hircine drops his stiff cock like a forgotten toy, the pout returning to her face in full force as she stands on wobbly legs.

This moody creature, what will he do with her?

There's still one piece not in place. Astarion holds his hand out, flexing his fingers, a devious grin upon his face. “Your panties, please.”

With a roll of her eyes and a muttered, “Insatiable…” Hircine peels off her sheer panties, slapping them into his awaiting hand.

They're damp.

Every synapse within his body misfires and Astarion goes statue-still, unsure of what he wants to do. The smell, the feel, the taste. He'll have it all.

Collapsing backwards onto the couch, Astarion mashes the panties against his face, huffing her intoxicating aroma so it's all he knows. It would be all too easy for him to get off with these now, shove them in his mouth as he strokes his cock until it bursts. Mere moments would pass with how wound up he is.

“I thought we were going to have fun?” Hircine interrupts his lusting, her voice whiny and quiet. When he turns his attention back onto his wife, she stands there with arms crossed exactly the way he likes, right under her bust so her tits are propped up and squeezed together.

The sight is absolutely mouth-watering.

Tucking the panties behind him so they can be added to his collection later, Astarion outstretches his hand, pulling Hircine closer when she places her hand within his, guiding one of his legs between hers. “Well, I’ll have to rectify that issue immediately. Sit your pretty cunt on me please.”

She pauses momentarily at the command before lowering herself slowly—obediently. As she does, Astarion takes her breasts in hand, leaning in to suck a nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the hardened bud until she grasps at his hair, pulling him further into her soft chest. He massages the other, feeling the give of its flesh and enjoying Hircine’s whispering whines. He’ll hand out a correction soon if her volume doesn’t increase. Her heat is dripping when it meets his skin and the smell of her arousal is driving him to the brink of insanity, moaning into her tit, fighting the urge to sink his fangs into it and bleed her till there is naught but a husk left.

Pillowy, delicious, and perfect. He adores these things, and the one they are connected to.

With one last hard suck, Astarion lets go, pinching her other nipple between her fingers and Hircine bucks her hips in response, slicking up his leg something glorious. “My sweet pet,” he begins, trailing his lips along the top of her breasts, “I want you to fuck yourself on my thigh,” he nibbles at her collarbone, earning him a hushed sigh that's a whisper from the gods themselves, “and I’m going to devour Belbol and Iiyola as you do, and you cannot stop until you come, not even for a moment. If you stop, I won’t touch you again for the rest of the night. Can you do that for me?”

“Ye-Yes.” Hircine whispers, her fingers entangling further, making a mess of his styled curls.

Bouncing the leg she’s sitting on, Astarion pulls back and watches her tits jiggle in tandem. Gods, he aches for them. “Can I bite you tonight?”

Her cunt clenches against his leg, thighs squeezing him as she nods and that nearly destroys all of his self control.

He regrettably tears his eyes away, staring into the shining rings of her eyes to save some thread of sanity with a shaky breath in to steady himself. He needs to last through this.

Moving up so she’s situated closer to the top of his thigh, Hircine places her arms behind her body, resting her hands on his knee so her back is arched, jutting her chest towards him.

The little vixen… She’s too much for him some days.

No time is wasted as he dives towards her chest, cupping her breasts to lavish attention on each nipple, alternating sucking, pinching and lightly biting. Gods forbid Belbol and Iiyola not get equal attention. Hircine is working as directed, rocking her lower lips against his skin, angling her hips down to build friction on her clit.

Her mewls of pleasure are music to his ears, feeding Astarion encouragement when he does something she likes.

Settling back against the couch while Hircine rides his thigh, he watches—admires, the way her curvy hips gyrate to some unheard beat, heavy breasts swaying in tandem. He licks his lips at the sight, wanting them covered in his bites and spit and scent, anything to mark her as his. “You need to be louder, Hircine.” He reminds her with a click of his tongue.

A rough twist to a nipple has Hircine crying out loudly, “Oh, fu—! Yes! I will be! Please, please, please!” Hips moving faster as her chest heaves under his touches. Now that was the right move.

Nearly a whole breast is sucked into his mouth when he takes one again, tugging it up and swirling her peak with his tongue while the other tit is palmed and squeezed aggressively, awaiting its turn.

Alternating to the next finally, his teeth graze over that luscious nipple, gently taking it between his teeth to pull on. He looks up and their eyes meet. Hircine’s jaw hangs slack at the sight, a sharp, erotic moan breaking out of her throat as she buffs her clit hard against his leg.

Releasing her breasts, they are now flushed and puffy from how hard he’s worked them. I think it’s time, Astarion thinks to himself.

“Which one?” He asks, breathless.

Hircine rocking slows, but doesn’t stop as confusion shatters through the lusty haze on her face. “Wh-What?”

“Which one do I bite? I’ll let my good girl choose.” He croons dreamily.

Her breath hitches and thighs bare down on him again. “The le—”

“Use her name!”

She’s able to muster a weak eye roll. “Ah~ Belbol.”

Astarion flicks the underside of Iiyola. He’ll find her a different reward later. “Good choice, pet.” Giving no time for any snark, Astarion plunges his fangs down into the chosen breast, relishing as her rich blood instantly fills his mouth. The bite is the last push Hircine needs to tumble over the edge, physically and metaphorically, as her arms give out, falling backwards limply while her orgasm pulses through her body, drowning him in more of her essence. Astarion wraps his arms up her back, holding her tight while he drinks another mouthful of that effervescent life blood spiced so wonderfully with her release.

Two more deep swallows are taken before he unlatches, running his tongue along the rivulets that dribble out. Hircine likes to be light-headed after his bite and anymore than that makes her unresponsive, so he strictly regulates how much blood he takes. To her, the high is fun, making her quite giggly and ‘floaty’, whatever that means. Four to five draws of blood tends to get her there without leaving her dopey and it fills Astarion up nicely for the day.

The wound sealed, he continues to suckle at her breasts and nipples, laving over those peaks with his tongue the way she does to candy, not yet ready to let them go. Each hard pull has Hircine shivering in his arms, her body involuntarily twitching with the aftershocks of her orgasm and bringing forth quiet, pleased sighs from between her bitable lips.

Regaining her faculties, Hircine wraps her arms tightly over his head, keeping his face buried between the two luscious pillows of her chest.

He could die and be reborn here again and again… and again.

“—on my face?”

The end of that sentence is the only part that makes it into his ears when Hircine's heartbeat is pounding wildly against his head. “Can you repeat that, love?” He speaks directly against her sternum.

She wiggles in his embrace as her skin heats up with embarrassment. So she said something scandalous… “Can you come on my face?” Her voice cracks at about six octaves by the end, turning to a squeak that is certainly only audible to cavvekans and one tit-obsessed vampire.

Astarion barks a laugh before pressing a kiss to her chest and pulling away. “Well if you insist, my darling pet. On the floor now, I'll paint a pretty picture on you.”

Crawling off of him in quick excitement and leaving behind his slick coated thigh, Hircine perches between his legs, awaiting her prize while sucking her lip between her teeth.

He could devour every bit of her, here and now.

It won't take Astarion long to reach his tipping point, but since he helped her reach euphoria, maybe she should return the favor… Not that he really cares for tit for tat between them.

Taking his cock in hand, he sees how she stills, her gaze hungering for what's to come. Edging closer to the end of the couch, Astarion wiggles it in her face. “Fuck me between Belbol and Iiyola.”

Her eyes grow wide in excitement, breathing stutters. “Can-Can I taste you first?”

With his other hand, Astarion caresses her jaw, slipping his thumb into the wet heat of her mouth to press down on her tongue briefly. “Of course you can, my sweet girl. You know I love it when you ask.” With that said, he reclines back on the couch.

Hesitant at first, Hircine takes him in her hands, bringing her lips to rest on the glans, slowly spreading her mouth open to engulf his cock, taking him all the way to the base.

His perfect girl, always eager to choke on his cock.

The flat of her tongue trails along the underside as she pulls back up, hollowing her cheeks. Astarion’s head drops against the couch with a breathy groan, straining already to not spend himself down her throat.

She must sense his closeness, quickly removing her mouth so an obscene string of spit and his precum threads his cock and her lips together.

How is he meant to maintain composure in the face of such a woman?

Now coated to perfection, Hircine brings her body higher, aligning her beautiful breasts with his aching member and embraces it in her heavenly soft warmth. She squeezes her tits together more firmly for some grip, sliding wetly up and down on his shaft. What a dream; Astarion could never ask for anything better.

It only takes a few passes until the urge is unbearable. His hips jerk upwards with a gasp as his control snaps. “I’m—Oh, gods!” Come erupts from his cock, spraying up onto Hircine’s face and breasts, which she continues to massage over his cock, extracting every last drop of spend from him like the greedy woman she is.

Knowing he gets sensitive following an orgasm, Hircine frees him from the succulent cradle of her breasts, inspecting the mess as come slides thickly down her tits.

Astarion tuts quietly, hating wastefulness. Fingers slide over one of her nipples, scooping up his spend to bring it to her lips which she opens dutifully for, sucking his fingers clean with a self-satisfied smirk on her face. “There’s a little something on your chest, pet. You should take care of it, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

She hums in agreement, raising her breasts to swipe her tongue along the top swell of them. They spill over in her small, yet capable hands as she licks up his mess.

Once done, Astarion plucks his shirt from the ground, wiping the rest of his spend from her face and anywhere her tongue couldn’t reach. “Fabulous job, love. Come here.” Ever keen to be in his arms, she dives into them, curling up against his chest and burying her face into his neck.

“Do you feel better now?” He murmurs against her hair, reveling in her body heat.

She nods. “Mm-hm.”

“Good. Next time your tits hurt, let me know immediately so I can give them relief. Just the thought of Belbol and Iiyola suffering in silence makes me ill. I can’t bear it.”

Her hand snakes down to his chest, pinching one of his nipples suddenly. His shocked yelp has Hircine giggling to herself. “I don’t think you need any reasons to give them relief, Husband.”

“True,” Astarion palms a breast in his hand, a soft smile on his face. “Of course, the same extends to you as well, pet. I’m always here for whatever you need.”

Her arms wrap around his neck, holding him close. “My perfect husband.”

“And my perfect wife.”

-belbol - gift -iiyola - treasure

[ficsbb]

Hello lovely!! Could you write something about John Wick with a really girly/hyperfeminine reader? I think he would love someone who’s just a total softy and a ray of sunshine. The type to always have flowers around, read fluffy romance books, and has a 10 step skincare routine. I think john would totally spoil her too 🤭🤭 maybe there’s a little bit of an age gap and she loves to tease him about being an old man 😅 idk I just want this man to have a sweet little starburst of a person to treat him right ❤️❤️ illysm 🥰😘

Thank you for the prompt!!! I hope it's to your liking, and I'm sorry it took so long 🫣🌺

》 Pairing: John Wick x Fem!Reader

John is skilled in many things, most being steering clear of big crowds and handling insanely dangerous weapons, but trying to handle two mugs of hot coffee while shooing the pup away is becoming... a task. He climbs the stairs and makes it to your shared room. The door is open slightly, and he catches you sitting in front of your vanity. Small vials, dried florals, makeup palettes littered all over. He doesn't know what half of it is, but he knows it smells like vanilla and lavender. It smells like you. Your eyes catch his, and he smiles as you bubble over with giggles, "Hey, you. Let me help." John nods and leans down to kiss the tip of your nose. "Watch me put on my makeup?" He smiles and says, "Of course."

He watches as you mingle with his acquaintances, your laugh infectious and distinctive. He notices how the younger men look you over and a small spark of jealousy gnaws at him, but he knows it's ridiculous. "Are you alright?" John is startled by your voice and nods quickly, "I'm alright, yeah." You know he isn't, so you grab his hand and lead him outside for some fresh air. "What's wrong?" You ask and watch him look at his hands, avoiding your eyes. You don't push. Rather, let the sound of the wind and low voices of people passing by fill the air until he speaks up. "Are you sure you're okay with me?" He asks, and the question confuses you, "I'm- I- look at these grays." John is taken back when you laugh out loud, uncontrollably. "John," you start, bringing your hands to his face, "your grays don't bother me one bit. I love you, silly." You reach up to peck his nose. He shakes his head and pulls you in for a languid kiss. "Now let's get back so I can show you off." You watch his back straighten, and he follows you inside.

You wake up the next morning to the smell of breakfast. It makes your stomach grumble embarrassingly loud. You find yourself out of bed, rinsed, and ready to head downstairs. "Good morning, pretty girl." John's voice is raspy and still full of sleep. He sets your food in front of you and watches as you take the first bite. "I have something for you." He reaches into his jacket pocket, draped over a kitchen chair, and places a small rectangular box on the counter. Your eyes light up, excited. "What's the special occasion?" He cocks his head to the side, "Since when do I need an occasion to spoil you with gifts?" You don't argue with that and open the box. A beautiful gold anklet with charms is settled into the velvet interior. "John, oh my goodness.." He smiles wide, delighted to see that you like it so much. "Let me." He takes it and kneels down in front of you, propping your foot on his knee to clasp the anklet on. "It fits perfectly, thank you!" You feel flushed when he kisses your foot. "So beautiful." He rises and kisses your lips, leaving you in a daze. "John, you really spoil me." "Not enough." He says and kisses you again.

A full day of shopping usually consists of John watching you pick out pretty things and ask him if he likes it for the bathroom, bedroom, on your body etc. It makes his heart swell. Bags full of fresh new linen and candles, both of your favorite snacks and foods are littered in the trunk of the car by early evening. After settling down, John coming down to the living room, he sees you sitting on the couch. Your legs are tucked up under you with a blanket draped over your shoulders and a mug of something warm in your hands; the steam obviously tickling your nose as you bring it up to your face to take a sip. "May I join you?" You nod and make room. The volume of the television is set low and it starts to lull John to sleep, but before his eyes completely close, he looks over at you. Your eyes set on the rom-com and your hand intertwined with his. "You okay?" You ask him, placing a soft kiss on his forehead. John sighs and closes his eyes, "Yes. Perfectly okay here with you."

[daddycassie]

A day by the lake with miss Lucy Gray 🌼

Pairing ~ Lucy Gray Baird x Fem!Reader - 2,021 words

Warnings: Fluff to Smut, a lot of foreplay, back clawing(very briefly), bondage, praise, woah this is kinky, Lucy gray being a sub

It was early evening when your lover dragged you down to her favorite spot by the lake. She was a sweetheart in all her glory, you watch her twirl, her lavender sundress fanning out around her as you spin her playfully. Lucy Gray nearly topples over with delighted laughter, she honestly might have had she not gripped onto your shoulders for balance. When she gazes to you with lovesick, brown eyes you simply have to kiss her.

She smiles happily against your lips before setting out her favorite(only) picnic blanket. “It’s warm enough to go swimming.” You tell her thoughtfully. Lucy Gray nods, “Did you want to?” She asks. You nod back, easily undressing down to your undergarments. You were oblivious to the way she stared.

You didn’t exactly have swimsuits, so bra and underwear would have to do. When you speed off and cannonball into the water Lucy Gray watches your every step. Briefly, she folds up your clothes and proceeds to undress herself too. She walks over and drapes her legs into the water, sparkling eyes searching the deep blue for you.

You grab your lover by the legs from under the dock and she shrieks, loud and high pitched. Your laughter follows and she tries her best to glare at you. “Y/n, what the hell?!” Lucy Gray crosses her arms, bringing another smile to your face. You pull her into the water, to her great displeasure and she holds onto you tightly. “You’re too cute hon.” You say with a kiss to her nose.

Lucy Gray can’t help the smile it brings to her face. “You’re so mean to me, you know?” She says softly. “Yeah well at least I can swim.” Your girlfriend’s face flushes at the tease. “I can swim, I just… prefer to be near you, because I love you so, SO much.” She solidifies the statement with an eager kiss.

You don’t know how much you believe her words, but you kiss back anyway, caressing the exposed small of her back. Lucy Gray is smooth and warm, and you’re afraid you might start getting a little handsy when cold water hits you in the face. The way Lucy Gray giggles mischievously tells you it was her doing. “Got it up my nose you lil shit.” You huff.

“Mhmmm,” she hums, “but you wouldn’t still be kissin’ me if you were mad.” You hated that she just knew everything — or at least acted like she did. You deepen the kiss suddenly and her eyes fly open in shock. She looks at you and you stare back. She’s quick to relent, letting her eyes flutter shut as her arms wrap around your neck.

One of your hands goes to Lucy Gray’s long hair, gently tugging and kneading there. Your other hand squeezes her hip, caressing it with your thumb. You feel the way your songbird’s heart thuds in her chest. The way her breath hitches. The way her hips press against you and you simply can’t resist—

She pulls away, taking a deep breath and you’re brought back to your senses. “Mmh, careful there.” Lucy Gray chuckles nervously. “I’m always careful.” You whisper, and kiss her jaw. Her eyes snap shut again and her legs hook around you. “Sure you are…” she mumbles back. Your hand moves down from her hair, to the small of her back again.

You want to turn her around and kiss a pattern down it till she quivers beneath you. You revel in the way Lucy Gray whines into the evening air. In this lighting she looks like a goddess, to you she is. She looks down at you while you lean in and kiss her vulnerable neck.

Lucy Gray bites her lip. Especially when you start biting. Tears prick at the corners of her cute doe eyes. “Y/n, baby, m-maybe we should get out of the water?” She offers faintly. “Mm. Right, blanket?” Lucy Gray nods in quick agreement to your words.

It’s not very difficult to carry her over to the little picnic blanket, even less so to lay her down. As soon as you’re leaning over her she presses her hips up against you with a quiet whimper. It’s warm, you note, she must be pretty desperate. You pull her hair again so her head leans back and her neck is bared.

As soon as she’s vulnerable again, you continue to make quick work of kissing and biting her neck. Lucy Gray’s continued little noises are quite the reward, and you decide it may be time to be a little cruel. Revenge for the splashing, after all. You drop your hips down on hers, effectively pinning them down against the blanket. She groans loudly in response, her breath is warm and steamy. Your lover’s muscles tense in failed attempts to buck her hips and you can’t help smirking. “What’s wrong Lucy Gray?” You coo to her. “Please… don’t be cruel.” Lucy Gray breathes her words. You love the way her nails dig into your shoulders needily.

She cries out particularly loudly when you start sucking on her neck, leaving marks that will surely be hard to cover up later. You decide to tease her a little. “Those ones won’t be easy to cover up, maybe I should move… lower.” Lucy Gray moans at your words. “Please, yes.” She nods frantically.

You lift your hips off of hers, only to press your knee between her legs after, causing her to tremble. “Baby, baby please.” She sounds pitifully desperate. You peel away Lucy Gray’s wet bra and admire her for a while. Certainly, the beauty in front of you was blessed by Aphrodite.

You place your hand on her chest, and she quickly arches into the touch. “Good girl.” You speak without thinking. The noise she makes in response is absolutely filthy and the way she grinds into your knee… it’s irresistible. You want to hear that voice sobbing brokenly into your ear.

You squeeze, knead and pull her chest and her pretty moans continue. You drink in Lucy Gray’s voice like it’s the last time you’ll ever hear it. “Please, please—“ she’s cut off by a whine when you stand.

“Come back!” Lucy Gray bites her lower lip for a moment, trying to lure you back with a pleading look. You look back with a smirk, “I’ll be back sweetheart, I just need to grab something I promise you’ll like it.” She doesn’t seem convinced but doesn’t complain further as you walk off to the shed.

When you come back, Lucy Gray is sitting up, having undressed herself the rest of the way, she pouts. “You took too long.” She spoke with a sharp edge to her voice. That edge would melt like butter soon. “Sorry, I got you something.” You smile, pushing her back down to resume the previous position. You hold up a smooth piece of rope. “Think you’d be okay if I bind your wrists up?”

Lucy Gray’s eyes narrow and she nods, when it came to you she was sure she could trust that you would make sure she enjoyed herself. You ball up a small piece of white cloth. “And this?” You ask, knowing she’ll understand what you’re asking. Again, she nods. Carefully, you adjust the position so that Lucy Gray is laying belly down propped up on her elbows, you hold yourself on top of her still.

You bring your lover’s wrists to your lips and kiss her pulse points, you can feel her fast heart beat. You tie her wrists out in front of her, assuring her comfort as you tighten and knot it. Lucy Gray tests its security with a couple tugs and then a thumbs up. You gesture for her to open her mouth and use the white cloth as a gag, if her short hum says anything, she’s definitely pleased.

Once she’s ready, you continue toying with her chest. Lucy Gray pants heatedly, the longer you tease, the mistier she seems. By the time you become bored of messing with her breasts she’s covered in a sheen of sweat. When she looks back at you, you see the dark lust in her eyes.

Your hands travel down her navel, and she groans into the cloth gag, pressing back flush against you. She was a little overwhelmed, but in the best way possible, she feels dizzy when you spread her legs apart. “That’s it, wider now. You’re doing so good.” Her honey eyes glaze out of focus and the world seems hazy when you praise her.

When you finally touch her sensitivity, Lucy Gray wants many things. She wants to slap you, she wants you to touch her, she wants to yell at you, she wants you to hurry up and fuck her already. She whines into the gag, hoping it would urge you to do something. The brunette feels great relief when you actually do, she presses her face down into the blanket as your fingers caress her clit.

Her hips jolt and her thighs tremble while you touch the bundle of nerves, she tries for louder moans but the gag makes it hard. You snicker behind her as she clenched tightly around nothing. Lucy Gray attempts a huff, but it turns into a whine when you circle her slit.

She squeezes her teary eyes shut and tries to plead with you, but there isn’t much she can do but squirm while you teethe at her neck roughly. She can feel each mark left behind, and it stings in just the right way that makes her eyes roll. You continue teasing her entrance, her muffled whimpers tell you all you need to know about how good it feels. Her hips grind down, rewarding her with a bit more friction, but not enough.

Lucy Gray feels your free hand on her chest, and you flick her there softly. She only trembles harder, her elbows struggling to support her. Finally, finally, you press one finger into her and with how overstimulated she feels it’s enough to make her scream under the gag. She squirms and jerks and cries, and you think it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

Lucy Gray is beyond soaked, and not just because of the dip in the lake. Her walls feel searingly hot, and the tightness makes fingering her harder, but somehow more satisfying. You press in the second finger slower, trying not to hurt her too much. The smaller woman bites down on the cloth, nearly choking on it as she moans. You thrust slowly, trying to get her used to the feeling.

It takes a long time, and Lucy Gray feels like she’s being tortured from the slow in, out, in, out, in, out. It’s driving her mad at this point, so she pulls against her restraints, moaning against the feeling of restriction and bucks her hips repeatedly to set a faster pace. Lucy Gray’s neediness shows, and you decide to give in, a third finger joins your thrusts and your thumb circles her swollen clit.

Lucy Gray’s eyes roll back as she’s finally driven up the wall, she tightly grips the picnic blanket and cries out over and over. You wrap your free arm around your girlfriend’s waist to hold her still and go rougher, faster. The wet sounds of skin on skin and the filth frantically babbled from her lips are pleasure enough for you. “Good girl, cum for me.” You whisper in her ear, curling your fingers.

Lucy Gray tenses, finally coming undone on your fingers. Wetness drips on your hand and she limps against the blanket. You remove your hand, cleaning it off while Lucy Gray tries to catch her breath. You remove the gag and untie her so she can do so easier.

Lucy Gray moves with a slight groan, and lays her head on your lap, “That was…” she begins to speak, but doesn’t finish. “The best?” She nods to you and you play with her hair.

“I don’t think I can move my legs.”

“How tragic, you’re at my mercy.”

“Don’t even think about it Y/n.”

Note: sooo, technically this is my first written out smut, so take it easy on me, I’m workin on it :,) also uh, don’t know what id do exactly, but maybe part 2? Let me know if you guys want it. @lucygraysbabygirl

[iamthecomet]

𝘔𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘺 𝘔𝘢𝘺 𝘋𝘢𝘺 𝘚𝘪𝘹𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯: 𝘊𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘈 𝘚𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘙𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘱𝘦

Rating: Pairing: Mountain & Cumulus & Dew Word Count: 743 Mountain and Cumulus make Dew's favorite cake for his summoning day. Mushy May brought to you by @forlorn-crows Divider by @ghuleh-recs

Mountain doesn’t consider himself much of a baker. He isn’t Cumulus who can whip up scones, and cookies, and marvelous cakes in an afternoon. He isn’t Dew who has an overall knowledge of all things kitchen that seems to be endless. But, he knows how to follow a recipe. And he knows how to make one thing perfectly.

Dew’s summoning day cake. 

If it was up to Dew–no one would make him anything. They’d have dinner together–that Dew cooked, and play games on the ancient N64 system, or watch a campy horror movie. There would be no cake, no gifts, no fuss. 

It’s not because Dew doesn’t like cake and gifts and fuss–it’s because he doesn’t think he deserves them–sees them as superfluous. 

Mountain won’t stand for it. 

Cumulus is with him, of course. Mountain feels better with her around when he’s baking. Like even if she just stood somewhere in the room and didn’t help it would come out better. She’s standing next to him, creaming butter and sugar while Mountain steeps strong earl gray tea to infuse into the batter. 

Cumulus measures out honey and adds it to her mixture of wet ingredients. Eggs are next. The kitchen already smells divine and they haven’t even put it in the oven yet. 

“He’s going to complain,” Mountain says, apprehensive. 

“He always complains. He doesn’t like when people do things for him.”

“I just wonder if maybe we should listen to him for once.” Mountain strains the tea into Cumulus’ mixture and she sighs. Humming softly as the herbal smell hits her. She adds a dash of lavender–her secret ingredient. 

“What and do nothing?” 

Mountain shakes his head. “Less, maybe. I mean I don’t like when people go all out for me–it feels–I don’t like to be seen like that.” 

“But that’s you, Mount,” Cumulus says softly, watching Mountain sift dry ingredients together. “Dew’s different. And we’re already making the cake.” 

“I don’t mean the cake. Of course we have to make the cake. I mean the gifts, the fawning over him. Maybe we could just watch a bad movie and–”

“Are you really going to be able to watch him make us all dinner on his summoning day and not help at all?” 

Mountain shakes his head. “No.” 

“What did you get him?” 

“Besides the cake?”

Cumulus laughs, she nudges Mountain with her hip. “What? Are you keeping it from me too?” 

Mountain blushes a little. “He found this rock when we were on tour, it’s not even anything special but it’s pretty. I…I might have stolen it from him and made it into a necklace.” 

Cumulus laughs, bright and airy. She takes the bowl of dry ingredients from Mountain and starts to add them little by little to the wet. “And you say you don’t want to fawn over him.”

Mountain flushes, he can’t help it. “He deserves it.” 

Cumulus nods in agreement as she mixes the batter. Mountain watches it come together–he dips his finger in, unable to resist the herbal sweetness of it. The lingering flavor of honey and bergamot burst on his tongue. He goes for another taste and Cumulus bats his hand away.  “Save some for, Droplet.” 

“Droplet will get plenty,” Mountain says, leaning over and kissing her on the temple, sneaking his finger into the batter as he does. 

“Enough!” She hip checks him, and curls her arm protectively over the bowl. “Go make the caramel or the frosting or something. You know Swiss can only keep him busy for so long.” 

Mountain smiles warmly at her, turning to dump the softened butter into the stand mixer. “Yes, ma’am.” 

When Dew and Swiss appear–an hour and a half later, the cake is done. Sitting tall and proud on the table in the middle of the kitchenette. Perfectly iced, caramel glaze dripping decadently down the sides. 

Dew’s smile lights up his face, his eyes dart over to Mountain and Cumulus a pink blush rising to his cheeks. “You didn’t have to.” 

“You alway say that–and yet, we always do.” Cumulus crosse the room to pull Dew into a hug, to kiss him gently on the forehead. 

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Mountain answers Dew’s smile with one of his own. This–he remembers–is why they do this. Just for these small moments when Dew allows himself to be loved and doted on without complaint or embarrassment. For the moment when he sees his favorite cake, waiting, just for him.

[dominimoonbeam]

To The Edge - 21

This work is mine and I do not give consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted without my permission. I am sharing chapters as I work on this story but it is copyrighted material that I plan to rework and publish when completed.

story tags: scifi romance, hijinks in space, rogues learning to trust, violence, blood, guns, death, explicit language, so much kidnapping,

Works organized and easily found over on the patreon. <3

TO THE EDGE - CHAPTER 21.

He put the ship down in a valley of rubble on a speck of a planet. It had been terraformed centuries ago for mining but tapped out early—like a lot of mines past the edge—and been abandoned by the SC. There was a tiny outpost on the other side, so unimportant that it wasn’t even charted as a residence in the Solar Court database.

Rory had been less sure of this little side quest when he landed than he had been when they first came up with the idea, but after seeing the look on Stardust’s face when they stepped off the ship…

How could someone who had lived in the Prime Quadrant of the Solar Court their whole life and probably seen more places than he could imagine, look so awestruck by a wasteland?

He turned and tried to see what they saw.

Lavender slate rubble and dark peaks in the distance, the white glow of the nearest star casting long shadows, and the wink of stars through the gray sky. The wind whistled through canyons and twirled fine particles into purple and black waves off the peaks.

The flare of their optic implant dragged a ring of electric orange light through their irises. Were they adjusting their vision to the lighting or were they recording images?

“No one lives here?” Stardust asked.

Rory laughed. They sounded like they were thinking of claiming the spot for themself. “There’s maybe fifty on the whole planet, mostly on the other side holed-up in what’s left of the settlement.”

Stardust nodded at the horizon thoughtfully, like they understood why those people were out here. Maybe they did, in a weird way. Anyone still living this far out, on a place that got no trade, were hiding from someone. More than likely, some of those people were hiding from Stardust’s family.

With another approving huff, Stardust grabbed the duffle bag and pointed at a spot near the wall of the canyon. “We should set the targets there!”

Rory shrugged and started walking, fishing a spray can from his bag and giving it a good shake. He marked out the target rings in fluorescent green.

“Those aren’t even…” Stardust critiqued.

He rolled his eyes and shouted back, “It’s not going to matter. You’re not going to hit them.”

“No one shoots at circles anyway.”

With a snort he took a few big steps to the side and then painted the crude outline of a person, a neon shadow on the rockface. It reminded him of when he was a kid on a rock not so different from this one. He and his sister had practiced on boulders, the side of a shed, and hollow synthetic skins they propped up in between. It had been a game when he was little. Even she had laughed then when they goofed around. But over those few years, it had changed. It had become increasingly important to hit the mark. It had stopped being fun—stopped being a game—and become survival.

A shot jolted him from his thoughts, a bullet of pink paint slapping the wall. Droplets of paint ricochet onto his cheek.

Rory turned slowly to look back at his attacker.

Stardust blinked and then heaved a laugh. They held their hands out to their sides and up a little, gun still in one. “A test shot?”

He raised an eyebrow and dropped the paint can on the ground by his boot, hands free to draw. They’d loaded up with paint rounds before getting off the ship. “What were you aiming it?”

They smiled sheepishly.

He waited.

Stardust held his gaze and even at that distance, he saw the boundless mischief there. He wasn’t sure they’d actually been aiming for him and not the wall with that first shot, but he knew they were going to try to shoot him this time.

The thrill of it was that for once in his life, Rory wasn’t sure who would be faster.

He wasn’t always the quickest, but he made a point of knowing when he wasn’t—of gauging others and being ready to jump or cheat when his life was on the line. And then there he stood, staring right at a Solinoh and not knowing if he’d survive, but not willing to run either.

Stardust’s eyes widened a fraction and he realized they didn’t know if they were faster than him either. The wind pushed across that space between them.

Their gun hand shifted, coming down and center to aim.

Rory drew and shot.

The sounds of it all were swallowed by the wind but he would swear he saw that splash of orange paint hit their vest before the two collided with his.

Stardust gaped in mock shock, one gloved hand tapping their heart and coming away with neon pink. They held it out to him like proof of betrayal and Rory couldn’t help but laugh. “You murdered me!”

“It was self-defense.”

They laughed, holstering their gun and waving him over. “I hit you first though.”

“The fuck you did.” He slid his pistol into the holster against his ribs.

“Oh, we will be revisiting the duel… But first!” They grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him to stand facing the target wall. They were so busy trying to get things set up just right, that he was free to just watch them. They stood in front of him, their back to the target. “Okay… so the pirate is back there—”

“Why a pirate? Why not a merc? Or a primer thug?” Rory countered.

Stardust huffed. “It’s a pirate today. It’s usually a pirate out here…”

He didn’t argue, even though they were wrong. In his experience, it was usually just some random person that had either lost their mind or gone past desperation. But he knew that in Stardust’s limited experience of the edge, it was mostly pirates. That was fair, since they had a bounty on their head that was probably turning some of those average people into mercs and pirates. Desperation killed.

Stardust stepped up to him, focused on their game, and Rory stood still to watch. They were right in his space, almost hip to hip. Their hand slid up his side to settle on one of his guns. “You would be wearing a jacket,” they explained, practically whispering now that they were so close. “No one would expect it.”

They very slowly drew the gun from the holster and Rory held his breath, trying very hard not to read too much into this. His primer was very confusing. Just the other day they’d turned down his flirtation with a blush and then told their friend they might use him as a decoy to get away from their cousin…

But right now… right now, they were looking into his eyes and drawing his gun, slowly curling their arm around their own middle to aim blindly behind themself. They were so close that he felt their exhale on his lower lip.

They pulled the trigger.

Rory watched their pupils pulse with excitement at the shot. He tore his gaze from theirs to look at the wall and the splash of pain near the ground. “I told you,” he smirked.

They twisted around to see too. “That’s why we’re out here. To practice!”

“You could just turn and shoot…”

“That wouldn’t be as cool,” they countered. They weren’t wrong but missing would be so much worse. “Maybe if I pretend to be injured and you’re like, holding me up…”

Rory snorted. “How would that help?”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Of your incredibly bad shot?”

“Of my brilliant idea!”

His laugh choked off when they put his gun back in his holster and he had to cough to hide it, looking away when they took up their position again—close.

[logicpng]

i Believe i am finally done making references

edit: pasting the image descriptions out of the alt text. since they're refs they're really long I am so sorry

[First image ID:

Digital artwork of Aldebaran Aster - a humanoid being in a suit, four arms, and a star shaped head - standing next to a large program window titled: "Aster: Info". He is holding up the mouse pointer in one of his hands and laughing, with a smug smile.

The text in the window reads:

"Current module:

[Selected radio button] Rigel [Selected radio button] Vega [Glitchy text box] Name: Aldebaran :)

Pronouns:

[Checked tick box] He/him [Unchecked tick box] She/her [Checked tick box] They/them

Other: [Long empty text field]

Module description:

[Following text in a large text box:]

The result of an undocumented bug, never caught during development. Aldebaran, as he dubs himself, combines Rigel's love for putting on a show and Vega's scripting skills, and it shows in the artistic ways he bends the OS to his will.

Being a fusion of two AIs unable to cooperate, though, has the side effect of giving him a bad temper and lack of patience. Combining that with the rush of being in control of everything from GUI to the very kernel? Doesn't seem like a smart idea. Especially not when the laptop has experimental technology baked into it.

But hey, you've backed up before this, right...?

[Text box ends]

[Large lavender OK button]"

First Image ID end]

[Second Image ID:

Digital artwork of The User - a human with a gray-green skin, dark green hair with a white t-shirt, track suit shorts and green socks - standing next to a large program window titled: "User information". They are standing with a laptop bearing the CaelOS logo on its back, and scratching their head, looking a little nervous.

The text in the window reads:

"Base info:

Name: Urs Norma; Pronunciation: OO-rs NOR-mah; Age: 25

Pronouns:

[Checked tick box] He/him [Checked tick box] She/her [Checked tick box] They/them

Other: Any/All

Personality profile:

[Following text in a large text box:]

Young adult figuring out... being an adult.

After hastily finding a used tech store, they found a replacement for their busted laptop. As it turns out, the machine hosts an OS that never saw the light of day, featuring experimental technology. At least, it's compatible with most software they need...

Despite the world being cruel and unforgiving, the spark of optimism remains bright. Just like the AI the laptop hides, all they can do is perpetually learn from their mistakes, and maybe even relay some of that knowledge to the little virtual assistants they find themself talking to every day.

[Text box ends]

[Large green OK button]"

Second Image ID]

[Third Image ID:

Reference image of Urs Norma - an androgynous person with gray-green skin and dark green hair. A large program window titled "The User: Outfits" shows them standing neutrally, facing the camera, in three different outfits:

Home: Plain white shirt, track suit shorts, green socks.

Work (casual): Green hoodie that says "gorf" with a cat face on it in white, gray-purple pants, and black dress shoes. Left and right hand feature black and white rings on their respective middle fingers.

Work (formal): Pink dress shirt, slightly unbuttoned at the top, same pants, same dress shoes, and same rings.

Behind them is an outline of Aster, that has text in it saying "height comparison aster :)". At the top of their rays, they're noticeably shorter than Urs.

A window titled "Head", slightly overlapping the large window, shows lineart of the user's head in profile and from the back.

Third Image ID end]

[adhdnursegoat]

Episode 9

Word count: 14.8K

Content Warning: light discussions of sexual assault. Nothing detailed. More about the reaction/effect.

Pairing: Edward Nashton X OC Romy Winslow

Setting: Pre-Arkham Origins; 2013

Friday, January 25th, 2013

The next day, Edward found himself pausing in his office doorway, taken aback.

Romy was there, sitting in her little corner by his desk. He was almost startled by it, his mind briefly conjuring the image of an email notification saying she had dropped the program, walked away, given up. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he caught himself. No, he realized, a glimmer of something almost like pride surfacing within him. 

She was resilient. Of course, she showed up. That was who she was.

He stood there a moment longer, hand hovering near the collar of his coat as he hung it up. His gaze focused an inch to the right, where her emerald coat hung. There was something strangely comforting about the sight of her coat next to his, a small detail that shouldn’t matter but somehow did. He felt a tug at the corner of his lips, an involuntary flicker of a smile, quickly hidden as he hung his scarf. 

Edward turned to find her scrolling on her phone.

And then she looked at him. Oh, god, she looked at him. Those eyes—cool, sharp, framed by that winged liner so perfectly done it was almost a signature in itself. For a moment, he was thrown off guard, his focus narrowing to every detail of her in that instant: the gray turtleneck sweater hugging her form, the way it complemented her skin, the short black A-line skirt that showed off the length of her legs, framed in those Mary Jane heels and stockings he couldn’t help but notice every time. Her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail that cascaded down, glossy and neat, a perfect line against the back of her chair.

Then, as if to drive the final nail into his composure, she smirked at him with that ease she so often oozed, a simple gesture that somehow lodged itself squarely in his chest, an ache he couldn’t quite name.

“Good morning, Mr. Nashton, sir,” she drawled like she always did, the lilt in her voice sending a shiver down his spine. It was the tone he had come to recognize, to both anticipate and dread, the way it edged between professionalism and something playfully defiant.

Realizing he was staring—again—Edward jerked his gaze forward, forcing himself to focus on anything else: his desk, his monitors, his meticulously organized workspace. As he strolled past her, the air shifted, ruffling her hair ever so slightly, and the scent of vanilla and lavender drifted toward him. He didn’t bother to hide the inhale he took, nor the quiet sigh that escaped him, the scent settling into his senses like a reminder he hadn’t known he needed. He set his coffee on his desk, his bag to the side, and lowered himself into his chair.

“Good morning,” he offered stiffly. He powered on his computer, fingers reaching for the keyboard in a forced attempt at distraction.

But it was hard to ignore her, leaning back with that same casual grace, the faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, as if the events of the past were just details brushed aside. She looked fine—more than fine. She looked normal, effortless, as though there was no trace of the pain or injustice she had carried. It was like a veil that, somehow, both reassured and unsettled him.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to refocus on the screen as the usual noise of booting programs hummed through the air. But he knew, deep down, today was different.

Edward wouldn’t say it—didn’t dare say it—but he was grateful she came back. Grateful that, despite everything, she had chosen to continue, to sit beside him in this small, strange sanctuary they had carved out together.

He swallowed, feeling his throat go dry, an uncharacteristic urge to say something creeping up on him. What do people do in these situations? he wondered, fumbling in his mind for the right words.

Ignorant to his struggle (or maybe she did know and just didn’t care), she looked at him with that steady gaze, always half-lidded and calm. There was something in her eyes, a spark that seemed to say more than words could, something that made his pulse quicken. He shifted in his seat, feeling a discomfort he couldn’t quite define, a pressure to say something—to acknowledge her, to give her more than a passing glance. He opened his mouth, fishing for the words on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t catch them, so he snapped it shut, lips soon pulling into a tight line.

In response, her lips quirked up, soft and knowing, and her chin lifted with a quiet confidence. For a moment, Edward was torn between the urge to look away and the undeniable pull of her gaze. But then, she seemed to take pity on him, turning away just as he felt his composure begin to slip. She smoothed her skirt, crossing her legs in that deliberate way that seemed second nature to her. The motion, though simple, was mesmerizing to him. Her hands lifted to the keyboard, fingers poised, and without a word, she dove into her work.

Edward exhaled, feeling the tension ease slightly from his chest as he watched her, though the tightness in his throat remained. There was still a weight between them, an unspoken shift that lingered, but it was muted now. He forced himself to focus on his own screen, blinking rapidly to dispel the haze that had settled over his mind from their silent exchange.

“What are we doing today?”

Edward glanced at her, his fingers hesitating over the keyboard when her voice drifted into his ears. Casual, easy as always. As if yesterday’s tension—her storming out, Hartley’s bullshit, her assault revelation, the weight of everything unsaid—had evaporated overnight. Like she hadn’t left him reeling, haunted by the realization of just how little he understood her or himself in the face of her complexity.

He swallowed hard, his thoughts scattering. How did she do that?

“Um—” he began, and immediately regretted it. His voice caught awkwardly, and he felt his stomach twist at the pitiful sound. Um? Really? He cleared his throat sharply, willing his words to form properly this time. “I need to perform some penetration testing on the network today,” he said, his voice steadier but still carrying a faint edge of awkwardness. He waved a hand vaguely toward the monitor. “Nothing glamorous.”

She didn’t look at him; she kept typing, working on whatever she was doing. (What was she doing?) “And how can I help you?”

The question felt like a challenge, though her tone didn’t suggest it. Still, he couldn’t help but read into it—everything she said felt layered, as if she were hiding something just beneath the surface.

He paused, searching for something meaningful, something to give her that would feel productive and… normal. Normal, like she seemed to be acting now. “You could… set up a few VMs,” he finally offered, though his voice was unsure. “We’ll need them for controlled simulations of attacks.”

“Got it.”

Edward glanced at her again, his gaze lingering longer this time. She shifted programs, closing out whatever she was doing—it looked different, like some social media page, something lavender and black, but the lines of code were unmistakable. He couldn’t help but notice how calm she looked, how composed, as though yesterday’s confrontation hadn’t happened at all.

He shifted in his seat, opening his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again, unsure of what words would even come out. He should focus on the task at hand, keep things professional, but the weight of yesterday lingered in the back of his mind. He felt like there was a gap between them, an unspoken distance she was trying to ignore and he didn’t know how to bridge.

The silence between them stretched. The weight of yesterday's revelations lingered unspoken, a fragile thing suspended between the two of them. Edward’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure if he should say anything, unsure if he even knew what to say. It was a feeling he was unfamiliar with, this strange vulnerability that edged into his thoughts.

He cleared his throat, breaking the quiet. “Hey…” He continued typing.

“Hey.”

Edward hesitated, his voice dropping. “... About yesterday…”

Romy glanced at him. “What about it?” She sounded calm, like yesterday’s events were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

He looked at her, pausing a moment before offering, “About everything that happened.”

For a second, something unreadable flickered in her expression. Then, as if deciding on a whim, she shook her head and turned back to her work. “That guy was being such a little cunt. Is he always like that?”

Edward blinked, momentarily thrown. Was this a test? Was this her way of addressing what he knew? Were they even talking about the same thing?

“Who?” he asked, almost cautiously, taking a slow sip of his coffee—the action more about keeping himself busy than actually drinking.

She made a dismissive gesture over her shoulder. “The goof-ass with the uninspired tattoo.”

“Goof-ass?”

“Yeah, the fuckboy that didn’t like being told ‘no.’” 

Edward stared, a faint frown forming behind his coffee tumbler. “You’re talking about Officer Hartley?”

“Riiight, that’s his name... Obvs didn’t think it worth remembering.” She smirked, her fingers flying over the keyboard, never missing a beat. He took another drink. “That guy is a total dill weed.”

He nearly choked, barely managing to cover his mouth with a hand. “Dill weed?”

She glanced at him, a playful spark in her eye. “Oh, sorry—was ‘cunt’ more safe for work?”

Edward snorted, caught entirely off guard. He barely managed to contain a laugh, reaching for a tissue to wipe his mouth before throwing it away. For a moment, the tension slipped away, leaving a warm, unexpected smile on his face. “You’re something else, princess.”

“You should see me outside of here.” She grinned, still focused on her screen, but clearly amused. “My father, uncle, and grandfather were all in the Navy, sooo the sailor’s mouth comes honest.”

He filed away the information: she had a father, uncle, and grandfather, and they were military men. Interesting. But then he registered the other thing she said: seeing her outside of work. Something about the way she said it made his mind wander, an unbidden thought creeping in—a curiosity about what she’d be like beyond the walls of this office, away from the data and case files. He pictured it, briefly: Romy, unrestrained, fully herself, laughing, maybe teasing him like she was now. Then, he remembered the pictures on her social media, the outfits that barely covered everything. He pushed the thought aside, but it clung stubbornly to the edge of his mind.

“I can only imagine,” he replied, hoping it sounded more casual than he felt.

“Don’t imagine…” Romy paused, then tilted her head and looked at him with a mischievous smile. “We should have a drink after work sometime.”

He blinked. The words hit him with the force of a speeding train. For a split second, his brain stalled, racing through an uncharacteristic panic.

Edward Franklin Nashton.exe error!

Did she just suggest… that the two of them… get a drink? His mind scrambled, filing through responses, looking for an appropriate one, but nothing seemed right. He opened his mouth, only to close it again, and it took him a moment to remember how to speak.

“Uh… sure,” he finally managed, his voice awkwardly stilted, as though the idea was a foreign concept. “I mean, yeah. If you… if you want.”

Her smirk deepened, seemingly amused and pleased. Much to his chagrin, he realized she was enjoying his discomfort. And yet, even as he felt his cheeks warm, there was a thrill in the challenge, a strange satisfaction in knowing that she was pushing him out of his well-worn habits, making him consider something outside his careful routines.

“Cool,” she lilted, her tone so casual it felt surreal. She returned to her task as though she hadn’t just upended his world. “How ‘bout tonight? It’s Friday.”

He swallowed, his mind whirring to process her words. “Tonight…?” he murmured, trying to keep his voice steady. Of course tonight, he thought, realizing belatedly that Friday evenings were the expected time for such things. Why did his fingers feel cold right now?

“Yeah, it’s Friday… You got something better to do?”

Edward should say yes. He had things to do. Like… What things did he have to do again? Laundry, taxes, dinner, Sudoku. He cycled through them, suddenly realizing that none of them mattered. Laundry could wait. So could the taxes—for at least one more day. (He liked getting them done as soon as the season started). The leftover Chinese in his fridge didn’t exactly hold the same appeal as the thought of spending the evening with her. And Sudoku? He would toss every puzzle book he owned if it meant he could figure her out instead.

“I’m… Um—” he coughed and thenforced his voice into something resembling his usual tone. “I think I can manage that.” 

The thought of sitting across from her, outside the boundaries of this controlled environment, made him feel like he’d stepped into uncharted territory. But, strangely, he wasn’t as averse to it as he would have imagined. There was a flicker of something else there, a curiosity, a pull that kept him anchored in this strange, new feeling.

“Sweet.” She nodded, continuing her work with that same cool confidence, as though she hadn’t just set his world slightly off-kilter. “You can show me if that wit of yours is as sharp after a few drinks.”

How does she do it? he wondered, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. She was scanning data with that focused intensity that drew him in, highlighting sections of code and pointing out vulnerabilities with ease. She had slipped back into the rhythm of work effortlessly, as if she hadn’t just thrown his entire routine into chaos.

The room was quiet save for the hum of the servers and the soft clicks of her nails. Those nails of hers—he couldn’t tell if he hated them or not. She moved with confidence, slower than him, but confident nonetheless, selecting configurations and executing commands with the ease of someone who knew what they were doing. Yet Edward felt a spark of unease, a pang of something he couldn’t quite name. He prided himself on being the best, on his precision and unmatched competence. Watching her work—it wasn’t threatening, exactly, but it was unsettling. She was good. Annoyingly good.

“This one’s ready,” she murmured, not looking at him as she added a virtual machine to the simulation environment. Her voice was even, measured, professional.

Edward nodded slightly, straightening in his chair as he refocused on the task at hand. “Good. Once all the environments are ready, we’ll run an internal attack simulation on the network. We’re looking for any overlooked vulnerabilities.”

“Overlooked by who?” she asked, a faint teasing edge in her tone as she glanced at him briefly, the corner of her mouth twitching upward.

He narrowed his eyes at her but didn’t rise to the bait. “By me, obviously,” he replied coolly, though his lips quirked in spite of himself. “Not that there will be any.”

“Confident as ever,” Romy said lightly, turning her attention back to her screen where she clicked a button definitively. “Alright, this is the last one. Ready when you are.” She shifted in her seat to face him, watching his screen.

Edward leaned forward, his fingers dancing over the keys as he began to execute the test. The screen flooded with data, lines of code scrolling by as the simulated attacks probed the system. He worked quickly, his focus absolute as he analyzed the results in real time.

“There,” he pointed to a section of the log, his voice calm but laced with a hint of pride. “See that? The firewall deflected the simulated breach exactly as it should. Perfect.”

Romy stood, shifting closer, just behind his shoulder to see better—studying the data. “Impressive. So what’s next?” He couldn’t help but notice that same soft vanilla and lavender miasma, and, in his periphery, he saw the way her manicured hand braced against his desk. It was distracting, but he didn’t let it show.

“Next, we stress-test the system.” He glanced at her, twitching only a little when he realized her face was closer than he expected. He blinked. She smirked. It made his mouth bob a moment before he found his words. “Um, we need to throw everything we have at it and make sure there aren’t any weak points under heavier pressure.”

“Sounds fun,” she simpered as she gazed down at him with that half-lidded gaze of hers. “Alright, lead the way, Mr. Perfect.”

Edward rolled his eyes. “Don’t get too comfortable. I’ll need you to monitor the system load while I escalate the attacks. It’s important we capture all the performance metrics.”

“On it.” She returned to her spot.

As the test ramped up, Edward found himself slipping into a comfortable rhythm. The work was challenging but familiar, a puzzle he knew how to solve. Yet every so often, his gaze flickered to her, watching the way she concentrated, the way she occasionally petted her ponytail or twirled a strand of hair around her long-nailed finger when deep in thought. She was good at this; he couldn’t deny that. But it was more than that—it was the way she approached the work, with a quiet confidence that commanded attention without demanding it.

“Load’s holding steady,” Romy announced after a few minutes, her voice calm and focused. “No slowdowns or bottlenecks so far.”

“Good.” He typed rapidly as he adjusted the parameters of the attack. “Let’s see if it stays that way when I increase the traffic flow.”

As the data streamed across his screen, he felt a flicker of pride—not just in his system, but in this strange partnership that was forming. She wasn’t his equal—he didn’t think anyone was—but she was competent, capable. And though he wouldn’t admit it aloud, there was a certain thrill in working with someone who—although slower—was in the same race as he was.

But even as he dove into the work, his thoughts lingered on her, on the quiet allure she brought into his life—to the world around her. The simple act of working together seemed to be more significant to him than he would care to admit. And all the while, his mind was stubbornly caught on the thought of seeing her later, outside of this sterile office, in a place where he couldn’t hide behind his work.

The day passed by quickly. The notion of tonight infected his mind, an unsettling yet thrilling thought, one he couldn’t seem to push away. He wondered what she would be like outside this space. He wondered what he would be like outside of this place—with her. He was going out for drinks—with her. Edward’s thoughts were tangled, uncertain, and he didn’t know what to make of them. But, for once, he didn’t push them away. He let the anticipation simmer there, adding a quiet thrill to the steady rhythm of work, a reminder that tonight, for the first time, he’d get to see her in a different light.

And maybe—just maybe—he’d be closer to figuring her out.

“Ready?” 

He blinked, noticing how she’d already slipped into her emerald coat, the rich color framing her beautifully against the muted tones of her clothes. He was taken aback by the sight of her holding his coat and scarf draped over an arm while she played on her phone, not looking at him.

“Yeah…,” he replied, shaking himself from the reverie. “Just finishing up this last string.” Then, with a few clicks, he quickly saved his work, trying to keep his movements smooth and controlled, though he could feel the faintest edge of excitement building inside him.

Finally, he shut down his computer and stood, reaching for his messenger bag and shoving his now empty coffee tumbler inside. She looked up from her phone with a small smile and held out his coat with a patience that comforted him, her gaze easy and relaxed. He stepped toward her, taking the coat from her hands and slipping it on, the purple scarf following suit as he wrapped it around his neck. He slipped his bag across his body and nodded.

“Mr. Nashton,” she lilted, looking up at him, “I believe you deserve a drink, sir.”

He managed a small genuine smile. “We both do.”

The two of them left the office, him following slightly behind her as they stepped into the precinct’s bustling bullpen. He realized this was the first time he had ever walked with her out of the precinct. She was always there when he arrived, he never followed when she left for the day, he stayed. But, not for the first time, he noticed how others glanced her way—some curious, some admiring—and how she walked through it all with such casual confidence, as if she were completely unfazed by the attention. She just continued scrolling on her phone, responding to a few messages, it looked like.

Once outside, she paused, scanning the street with a relaxed, easygoing confidence that he envied more than he’d care to admit. She turned to him with a casual smile, one that seemed to carry none of the weight he so often felt, as though the entire night was simply a chance to unwind—and that included him. The city lights and fading sunset reflected in her eyes, giving them a warmth that contrasted with her cool demeanor and the biting chill in the air. 

“Any place in mind? Favorite spot?” she asked, her tone light, unconcerned, as if the answer was the least important part of the question. As she fished through her bag, the soft clatter of objects added to the quiet noise of the street. He noted, with mild surprise, when she finally pulled out a small round vape. Without a second thought, she raised it to her lips, inhaling with the ease of habit. It wasn’t shocking, exactly—he’d seen many people vape, smoke, drink, indulge. But somehow, he hadn’t imagined her with this particular vice, and it struck him as another small mystery, another tiny layer that made her unexpectedly, intriguingly human.

Edward’s gaze lingered as she exhaled, the vapor forming a silvery cloud that dissipated into the cold air. There was something oddly captivating about the casual way she handled it, unbothered, confident, as if she’d done this a thousand times before. He realized, suddenly, how little he actually knew about the things and habits that defined her life outside of work. He’d been so absorbed in his own routines, so insulated within the careful structure he’d built, that even something as simple as a favorite bar felt foreign, almost trivial.

Feeling unexpectedly self-conscious, he rubbed the back of his neck. “I… don’t have one,” he admitted, the words slipping out in a way that felt strangely vulnerable. There was a small pang of discomfort as he realized how narrow his world had been, how he’d prioritized his work, his routines, at the expense of simple pleasures.

Romy chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to cut the chill of the night. As she exhaled another hit of something—he assumed nicotine—the vapor mingled with her breath, swirling in the air like a tiny, fleeting display, and for a moment, he forgot about his hesitation, feeling a quiet rush of warmth in his chest. “That’s okay…” she soothed, her tone so accepting, so easy, as though his lack of experience with something so ordinary was perfectly understandable.

Then, she slipped her phone into her purse, adjusting it on her shoulder with that same unhurried grace, and nodded toward the left side of the sidewalk. “There’s this place I know a few blocks over called The Marble Ring. My friends and I have been there before.” Without waiting for a reply, she started walking in that direction, taking one last pull from her vape before tucking it back into her bag. “It’s, like, really cool. Very chill vibe. I think you might like it.”

Edward nodded, his gaze lingering on Romy as he followed her lead. That same thrill of anticipation settled in his chest, flooding his system with timorous warmth—unfamiliar but welcome—and he couldn’t help but think about how confident she was in what she was doing. She was younger than him—22, almost a decade his junior—yet the way she carried herself, the way she commanded a sense of calm maturity, was unlike anything he would have imagined from someone like her.

He tried to reconcile it with the idea he’d built in his head: a former cheerleader, a sorority girl, a college student. Someone who should be pulling on some slinky dress entirely inappropriate for the current weather and heading out to a frat party, laughing with friends, boyfriends, or girlfriends, spinning through a night of youthful abandon. And yet… here she was, inviting him out for after-work drinks, choosing him over the usual escapades of people her age.

The thought unsettled him, gnawing at the edges of his carefully crafted self-image. He didn’t feel old, but he wasn’t young either—not in the way she seemed to glow with it. That effortless confidence and energy seemed to shroud her in a protective aura, something he could only admire from a distance. He didn’t feel like someone who would easily capture her attention, especially not with his solitude, his quirks—the very qualities that had always kept others at arm’s length. But as the two of them walked through the streets of Gotham, her shoulder occasionally brushing his, a steady warmth seemed to radiate from her, soothing the chill of the night. It made him feel something he’d rarely allowed himself to feel—oddly chosen. Wanted.

There was something smug and satisfying curling in his chest at the thought of her wanting him, choosing him over the dozens of other people her age who would clamor for her attention. But then, he quickly squashed it down, brushing off the thought, telling himself that anyone would be lucky to have his attention, to be noticed by him. Of course, he thought, it was only natural. Who wouldn’t be drawn to his intelligence, his wit? She was young, clearly smart enough to see the value in knowing someone like him.

And yet…

Why did it feel like he was the lucky one right now?

The evening air was crisp and biting, the final remnants of daylight fading into the dark hues of dusk. Gotham winters were harsh, unforgiving at times, and today was one of those days. The snow drifted down in slow, heavy flakes, piling up around the streets and reflecting the hazy glow of streetlights. The wind funneled between the buildings, sharp and cutting, amplifying the chill. Edward tugged his scarf tighter around his neck, the thick wool providing some shield from the cold.

His eyes kept drifting back to her, taking in the way she walked, coat pulled snug, chin ducked low in her collar, her hands tucked into her pockets. Despite her attempts to stave off the cold—he caught the sound of her chattering teeth. Her cheeks and nose had turned a soft pink from the cold, lending a color to her face that he found unexpectedly endearing.

Without thinking, he paused mid-stride, stopping as he unwound his scarf. “Here,” he murmured, voice low, firm in a way that left no room for protest. The cold seemed sharper in that brief pause, the sounds of the city muted. She stopped and turned, blinking up at him with big eyes. But her expression softened as he carefully draped the material around her shoulders, wrapping one end close to shield her face and neck from the biting wind.

Edward’s hands lingered as he adjusted the scarf, ensuring it sat just right. He smoothed the edges carefully, his knuckles brushing lightly against the skin of her jaw, a touch so brief and incidental it almost escaped his notice. Almost. As he pulled back, he caught the faintest scent of that lavender and vanilla, warm and familiar, weaving its way into his senses. And he realized, perhaps for the first time, just how close she was—closer than he’d let anyone get. His fingers trembled slightly, betraying him, though he quickly masked it. He told himself it was just cold outside, and he reminded himself this was just a scarf, simply a practical gesture.

But when he looked down, he found her watching him with that knowing smirk, hooded eyes glinting in a way that both challenged and reassured him. There was no shyness in her expression, no uncertainty. Instead, she looked at him like she was fully aware of what she was doing, as if she found some quiet amusement in the small disruption she’d caused. It unnerved him.

She tilted her chin up, the smirk lingering as she lilted, “Thank you, Mr. Nashton.” The way she said his name, the way she wore his scarf, wrapped around her with effortless charm, was anything but ordinary to him.

Edward felt something twist in his chest, a strange ache he wasn’t prepared to examine too closely. This simple moment—a scarf, a shared look—felt oddly intimate, and for a second, he wondered if he was even allowed to feel this, to indulge in a connection so… unfamiliar. 

He cleared his throat and muttered a gruff “let’s go” before looking away. He resumed walking his steady stride, albeit feeling a bit off-kilter.

As they continued their journey, he caught himself glancing at her every so often, watching how she tucked into the material’s warmth. The fact that she was wearing something of his made his cheeks feel warm, negating his need for the scarf anyway. The plum fabric, he noted, matched well with her outfit.

And—oh… Was she sniffing it?

Romy’s gaze flicked to him from her periphery, that tricky smirk on her face. “You smell nice.”

The “thanks,” he offered came out more squeaky than he would have liked.

They both fell into an easy silence, and when they reached their destination, Edward was intrigued. The building itself was two stories, the bottom floor an industrial style brewery with a bar. But when they entered the building, she lead him upstairs, past the brewery’s entrance. At the top, the second floor appeared to be a casual Asian-fusion restaurant, minimalist and contemporary. 

Edward aadmitted his confusion to himself. He thought she was taking him to a bar, somewhere straightforward, maybe even mundane. But as she led him through the eatery and past the counter, a small thrill prickled in his chest. He wasn’t sure what to expect—and it was clear she enjoyed keeping him off-balance.

Her destination, however, was anything but ordinary. As she stride inside what looked like an old London call box tucked in the corner, Edward’s brows knit together. He opened his mouth to ask, but the sly smirk on her lips when she looked back at him stopped him short.

“You coming?”

He hesitated, lingering outside the dark box for a second, suddenly aware of the intimacy of the space, of how close the two of them would be inside. His pulse quickened at the thought, and he realized with a jolt that he was having a hard time maintaining his usual composure. But then, with a nod, he stepped forward, doing as she suggested.

Inside, the call box was as close and intimate as he feared. The space was tight—close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off her. They were nearly chest to chest, and as she closed the door, the outside noise faded, leaving only the two of them. His heart pounded, and he was uncomfortably aware of the proximity, how their bodies were inches apart, her gaze holding his with a confidence that left his jaw tight.

Without breaking eye contact, she reached up and lifted the old-fashioned phone from its receiver. He followed her movement, noticing the soft flick of her wrist, the gleam of her lilac manicured nails, the way her berry-colored lips twitched as she listened on the other end. “Two, please,” she cooed into the phone, her voice low and calm, as though sharing this cramped space was the most natural thing in the world.

Then she hung up, her eyes never leaving his. He was frozen, rooted to the spot. It was really hot inside the cool box. He reached up and tugged at his collar, lips pulling to one side.

“Uncomfortable, Mr. Nashton?” she teased, her voice barely more than a murmur.

For a second, Edward was at a loss, trapped in the intensity of Romy's gaze and confidence. There was a knowing quality to her smile, a subtle satisfaction in the way she watched him, as though she had read every thought skittering through his mind. Uncomfortable? He was damn near speechless.

He smirked back at her, tilting his chin up, looking down his nose at her, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Not at all,” he managed.

Romy’s cheeky grin deepened, and the smugness in her expression only sharpened, as if she was fully aware of his bluff. The silence stretched, and in that moment, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to step back or lean in closer. Before he could dwell on the thought, a low mechanical whir hummed behind her, and he flicked his gaze over her shoulder, realizing that the back wall of the call box was swinging open, revealing a hidden, dimly lit space on the other side.

“Come on,” she commanded, stepping backward and beckoning him with a crook of her pretty little finger. That simple gesture, coupled with the mischievous glint in her eyes, made his mouth go dry. She narrowed her gaze at him with a challenge, as though daring him to follow, before spinning on her heel and proceeding into the darkened doorway.

Without further hesitation, he did, feeling both relieved and oddly disappointed as the tension of the call box faded into the ambient warmth of the establishment beyond. But even as he took in the plush, intimate atmosphere of the bar, he was keenly aware of the way his pulse raced.

The soft hum of the restaurant outside the call box faded as Edward stepped into the darkened corridor. Had the end of the short passage was a neon red sign that read “The Marble Ring.” In a few steps, she disappeared to through the entrance to the left of the sign. Carried by his curiosity, he followed behind and turned into the open space beyond the hall. 

Edward was immediately struck by its ambiance—a world of refined elegance and subtle mystery wrapped in 1920s allure. The dim lighting set everything aglow in amber tones, casting shadows that seemed to dance with the low, seductive notes of a jazz saxophone that filled the room. The music was soft, sultry, settling like silk over the warm air, and the scent of polished wood and vintage leather mingled with the faintest trace of old perfume.

He took in the bar itself, a striking centerpiece lined with gleaming crystal decanters and glassware against a backdrop of golden mirrors. The way the light reflected off the gold trim and crystal edges gave the entire bar a glistening quality, as if it held secrets worth uncovering. But the seating truly captivated him—a carefully arranged collection of low velvet armchairs, cushioned sofas, and satined chaise lounges, scattered around small coffee and side tables. There were no standard tables, no stiff booths; instead, each cluster of furniture looked like a scene from a private gathering in some grand, forgotten home, inviting guests to sit back and sink into the comfort of another era. Groups of two, three, maybe four people chatted quietly, the atmosphere whispering that this was a place meant for quiet conversations, for secrets and stories shared over curated cocktails.

Romy followed a hostess dressed impeccably in flapper style, her dress shimmering under the glow of the dim lights, a single lavalier necklace glinting as she moved. Her gloved hand gestured gracefully to a small setting with two chairs—perfectly intimate, tucked into a quiet corner.

“Have you been here before?” the hostess asked, her voice smooth and light.

Romy nodded with a hint of familiarity. “I have,” she replied with a smile, then nodded toward Edward. “He hasn’t.”

Edward watched, intrigued, as Romy removed her coat and draped it over the arm of her chair but left his scarf loose around her shoulders. She sank into her seat with practiced ease, crossing her legs at the ankles, the lamp casting a soft, golden glow over her.

“If you need anything, sir,” the hostess said with a small, inviting smile, gesturing to a little metal-beaded string between them, “just pull that string, and your waitress will be here in a moment.”

He nodded, noting the unusual yet charming detail, the kind of touch that made this place seem even more like a hidden relic from another time. As the waitress departed, he took a moment to absorb everything—the plush, pink velvet chairs, the quiet yet casual elegance of the room, and, of course, Romy. She seemed to belong here, her posture poised and comfortable, her gaze taking everything in with a practiced appreciation that suggested she had been here enough times to feel at ease yet not so often as to lose the thrill of it.

Edward shrugged off his coat, draping it over the back of his chair, and took his seat across from her. There was only a small side table between them, the distance close enough that he could see every expression, every shift in her gaze.

“So,” she drawled with a playful smile, tilting the cocktail menu toward him. “Care to pick your poison?”

For a moment, Edward found himself momentarily lost, caught in the warmth of her gaze, the mischievous spark in her expression as she leaned in, eyes flicking between him and the menu with quiet amusement. It was unsettling, almost too intimate, but he was captivated all the same, compelled to match that playfulness with a spark of his own.

The menu in his hands was filled with names as enigmatic as the establishment itself—The Dapper Devil, Smoked Moonlight, The Whispering Widow. He raised a brow, intrigued but uncertain, only to have Romy step in, her tone lilting with a playful challenge.

“Indecisive?” she teased, leaning forward, nails clicking idly on the arm of her chair, clearly entertained by his hesitance.

He quirked an eyebrow. “You’ll find that I’m a fairly decisive person, actually. But I’m curious as to what you think I might like.”

“You seem like a classy kind of guy.” Her lips twitched into a smirk. “Old Fashioned, gin martini, Gibson, a Boulevardier, maybe. That sound about right?”

“I must admit… you are right,” he replied, a slight edge of smugness coloring his tone. He couldn’t help the way his lips tugged upward in a self-satisfied smile as he leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee. “I am a classy guy. And I do have a proclivity for the simplicity of an Old Fashioned.”

“Humble, too.”

Edward’s gaze narrowed, a chuckle escaping him. “You’re one to talk, princess.”

With a cheeky grin, Romy reached over to the metal-beaded string beside the table, giving it a gentle pull. Interestingly, nothing happened—no sound, nothing. Then, within moments, a waitress appeared, her champagne flapper dress and matching bedazzled headband shimmering under the warm glow of the lamp.

“Good evening, what can I bring you two?” she asked, her smile both polished and welcoming. Then she noticed Romy, and her face lit up. “Oh! Hiya, love!”

Romy tilted her head, eyes narrowing in cool recognition as she took in the blonde at her side. “Hello, Candy,” she drawled. Edward didn’t miss the way her eyes dropped to the gold heels on the waitress's feet before slowly letting her gaze rove back up. She leaned an elbow against the arm of the chair, propping her chin on a fist, staring up at the woman with keen amusement. “Don’t you look ravishing tonight.” Her words were slow, measured, and even Edward felt a throb of something unsettling in his pelvis at the sound.

The blonde seemed to shift on her heels, brushing a strand of goldenrod hair behind her ear as color rouged her plump cheeks. “Geez, make a girl blush, why don’t ya?”

His student cocked an eyebrow, the faintest smirk playing on her lips. “It’s what I do.”

Candy shifted again, glancing at Edward with a curious smile. “Who’s ya friend?”

Romy didn’t look at him. She only gave a disinterested shrug. “An acquaintance.”

Edward frowned, insult prickling at his skin. His mouth pulled into a tight line as he watched her closely.

Candy gave him a bored look, studying him carfully before her lips curled into a mischievous grin. “He’s cute.”

“Isn’t he, though?” Romy lilted, sliding her gaze to him. The previous insult was soothed in an instant, though the burn of her playful dismissal lingered faintly.

The waitress observed Edward carefully, an odd look in her gaze. She pursed her lips and then, after a beat, sighed and rolled her hazel eyes. “Got a name, buddy?”

“Edward.”

“Well, Edward, enjoy your time with this one while you can.”

He cocked a brow, but she didn’t give him time to linger on the topic before glancing back at Romy with a less chipper attitude than before, though no less fond. “You want the same ol’ same ol’, babe?”

Romy glanced at Edward, a subtle dare in her eyes before looking back at the waitress. “Ah, you know me well, Candy.” 

“Dirty gin martini, extra olives. Got it”Candy’s eyes flitted to him, a look of low-key ire in her flat gaze. “And you?”

“Old Fashioned.”

Candy nodded and was off to fetch their drinks, her beads shaking and swaying along the way. 

Edward let his gaze drift over Romy, taking in the way she lounged effortlessly in her seat, leaning more to one side. Her confidence and self-assuredness were unwavering. She looked entirely in her element: the speakeasy, the scorned waitress, the lavish pink chair she dominated, the high ponytail. He couldn’t help but think how she would make the perfect Bond girl, a femme fatale with her clawed hands resting casually on the armrests—or perhaps a Bond villain.

The bar hummed with a soft murmur of background noise, low conversations blending into the faint clinking of glasses, the warm light casting a golden glow over the table. Edward shifted in his seat, momentarily glancing away before Romy broke the silence.

“Tell me, Mr. Nashton,” she began, her voice playful as she leaned slightly forward, “Did you accept my invitation just to be nice?”

He chuckled, a low, genuine sound that surprised even himself. “Me, nice?” The laugh escaped him, and when she joined in with a small, musical giggle, his smile broadened. The sound of her laughter pulled something from him, something he hadn’t expected. He sat up a little straighter, his eyes narrowing playfully as he met her gaze. “No. I merely wanted to save you the embarrassment of being turned down.”

“Gee, thanks.” She shook her head as if disappointed, though she was still smiling. “That’s totally what girls wanna hear.”

“And what do girls want to hear?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, feigning disinterest as he watched her with curiosity.

Romy’s lips pulled to the side, her eyes rolling up as she squinted in an exaggerated look of mock thought. With a delicate tap of her finger to her lips, she sighed as if lost in deep contemplation. Edward felt his chest tighten, the playfulness in her expression making him more aware of his own heartbeat.

“Well,” she drawled, her eyes sliding back to him, a teasing glint lighting them up, “I think girls want to hear how much they’re wanted—needed.”

Edward felt his smirk falter for a split second. Needed. The word stirred something in him, and for a brief moment, he was unsure of what to say. He hid his reaction behind a knowing smirk, leaning back slightly, his voice dropping to something smooth and confident. “Ah, I see. That’s where the expectations diverge. You see, I don’t need anyone. So I can’t understand the sentiment.”

“In my experience, only incels and fuckboys say that.”

“Classy,” he chided, giving her a dry look.

With a flick of her wrist, Romy tossed a piece of her ponytail over her shoulder and leveled her gaze with his, the confidence in her eyes challenging, playful. “Who said I was classy?”

The two of them fell into a silence that didn’t feel like silence at all—more like an electric pause, thick with words left unsaid. Edward watched her, unsure of how to react to the things she said. He prided himself on being composed, on always having the upper hand in any conversation, but with Romy… sometimes he felt like he was the one left scrambling to keep up, to maintain his cool.

The waitress returned, interrupting the charged stillness, placing fresh drinks in front of each of them. He felt her eyes on him as they each reached for their glasses.

Romy raised her glass, her slender fingers, enhanced by those sharp-looking nails, clutching the delicate stem in an equally delicate grip. “To being classy.” Her voice was light but with a teasing edge that brought the ghost of a smile to his lips. The glint in her eye drew him in, made him feel like he was part of something, some private joke only the two of them shared. It was intoxicating.

“To being nice,” he murmured, more to himself than to her, the words softer than he intended.

They tapped the table with the glass bottoms before finally drinking. 

His nerves relaxed a little more, feeling a warmth that went beyond the burn of whiskey in his drink. He took slow sips, savoring the complex blend of smoky whiskey and bright citrus. But he also found himself distracted by the way Romy cradled her drink in that lilac-nailed hand of hers, her eyes meeting his over the rim of her crystal coupe glass. There was a quiet allure in the way she held his gaze.

Then Edward cleared his throat, breaking the silence with a thoughtful edge. “Speaking of being wanted…” He noted the slight lift of her brow. “I must say I was surprised that you turned Hartley down yesterday. Seems like he wants you.”

She pursed her lips slightly and then drank. His eyes lingered on the way she licked her lips of the lingering liquid before responding. “Why’s that surprising?”

“Because, objectively speaking, Hartley fits that ‘All-American’ mold that seems to appeal to… well, everyone.” His gaze shifted, studying her reaction carefully. “Athletic, confident, enough ego to fill a room—completely unwarranted, by the way. He’s an idiot... Isn’t that the type you girlies like?”

Romy let out a soft chuckle and plucked an olive from her glass with those dainty nails of hers. “And you assume that’s my type?” She tossed the green orb in her mouth, her equally green eyes fluttering in pleasure as she chewed the snack.

“Given what I know of you so far?” He raised an eyebrow. “I suppose I shouldn’t assume anything.”

“Good.” She tilted her glass toward him, her expression amused. “Assumptions lead to disappointment.” The edge in her tone was apparent. She sighed through her nose and sat back with an arm across her abdomen. “Confidence is meaningless without substance behind it. And if that’s all someone has, they don’t stand a chance with me.”

Edward’s smirk faded, replaced by a flicker of something more thoughtful. For a moment, he wondered if she was including him in that statement, if this was her way of probing him, testing whether he was as self-assured as he pretended to be. But her gaze remained steady, open, inviting him to ask more, to dig deeper. The thought intrigued him more than he cared to admit.

“So you’re telling me you turned down Hartley because you believe he lacks substance?”

“Yes, that and—” She pursed her lips, a shift in her cool demeanor. Her eyes twitched, and she looked away, grimacing. It seemed as though she was uncomfortable, something stark against her generally unbothered demeanor. She sipped her drink before answering. “Well, for one, I don’t like people touching me without my permission. Like, if I know you, if I like you, I’ll let it happen, but if I don’t know you, don’t fucking touch me. Feel like that’s just basic human courtesy…”

“That would imply Hartley is human.”

“Touché.” Romy flashed him a smile, something genuine, before it shifted into something more derisive, full of contempt. “Second, guys like Hartley think they’re entitled to whatever they want. Take whatever they want. Make comments on people's bodies.” Her hand tightened on her glass, and her jaw clenched. She took a gulp of her drink, closing her eyes as though to steady herself. After swallowing, she opened them, seemingly more relaxed but no less disgusted. “Like, it’s just fucking gross, period. The world would be better off without guys like him.”

Edward raised his drink in agreement. “Seems we have that thought in common. Hartley is a waste of oxygen.”

“A male nipple, if you will,” Romy offered, gesturing with her glass as well.

He couldn’t help but laugh—a full, genuine laugh that startled him with its intensity. “Ha ha, what? A ‘male nipple’?”

The tight grin that stretched across her lips seemed to indicate she was trying to hold back a laugh, causing dimples to form in her cheeks. Dimples. It was the first time Edward had noticed them.

“Yes, completely devoid of any purpose.” Her smirk returned, her face and body relaxing back into her cool demeanor.

“That’s one I’ve not heard. I’ll give you that,” he admitted, humor lacing his voice. Though he tried to keep it hidden, his lingering smile betrayed the appreciation he felt. “Points for originality, princess.”

“What can I say? They broke the mold with me,” she replied with a slow, half-lidded grin, her tone dripping with that familiar, effortless charm. Her smirk deepened, her eyes glinting, as if daring him to disagree.

“I’m starting to believe it…”

And Edward did believe it, didn’t he? Romy wasn’t just another pretty face—there was something more, a depth that unsettled him. But there was also something else: she was almost too witty, too sociable, too grounded—unnervingly so. His gaze lingered on her, a silent, searching study.

“Last I’ll say on the subject of Hartley,” Romy muttered, eating another olive, “I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t use to be attracted to his type.” She shrugged. “But I left guys like that in high school. Right where they peaked.”

He chuckled, swirling his glass before lifting it with the intention of taking a sip. “And now what’s your type?”

The smirk that pulled at her lips was devilish. “Mature, witty, and stern, with pretty, blue eyes and cute, nerdy glasses…” 

His glass froze just shy of his lips. Romy’s easy, half-lidded gaze held his over the rim of her coupe as she took a languid sip. A faint blush rose to his cheeks, and he swallowed, cursing the telltale warmth spreading across his face. He could only hope the low lighting hid it.

She could be talking about anyone, he told himself, even as his pulse quickened. But something about the way her gaze roved over his form, lingering just long enough to feel like a caress, made him think that maybe she meant him. That, somehow, she was speaking directly to him.

Edward lifted his glass to cover his expression, taking a measured sip while he searched for a response. It was unsettling, how easily she dismantled his usual composure. He was used to controlling the flow of conversation, keeping others at arm’s length—but with her, it felt as though he was the one being toyed with, studied.

He raised an eyebrow, feigning indifference as he swirled his drink. “Glasses, hmm?” he murmured, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Didn’t realize they were such a selling point.”

Romy bit down on her last olive, looking at him through her lashes with that puckish smile that made his stomach flip. “They’re a good look—sexy, even.”

The blush on Edward’s cheeks deepened, and he shifted slightly in his seat. The way she was looking at him… 

God, why was he suddenly remembering how he had touched himself to thoughts of her mere days ago—in his office, no less—like some desperate gremlin? An unsettling warmth stirred in his loins, his pulse quickening as unbidden images began to crowd his thoughts: Romy crossing that small distance between them, crawling into his lap, her ponytail spilling over her shoulder as she looked down at him with that same wicked, knowing smile. His fingers practically ached to reach out, to feel the softness of her thighs under her skirt, the warmth of her skin beneath those teasing stockings.

He caught himself, forcing his gaze back to her face as he took a slow sip of his drink, hoping it would clear his head. But he was only met with that smirk of hers and that spark in her eye that made him feel like she knew exactly what was going on in his mind.

“Does your boyfriend wear glasses?” he asked, trying to sound casual about it.

She raised an eyebrow, her smirk deepening as she tilted her head. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

He shifted forward slightly. “Girlfriend, then?”

“No.”

“All right then,” he gestured whimsically with his free hand, “non-gendered, non-specific significant other?” He tried to keep the exchange light, forcing a disinterested look.

“Nope.”

Edward couldn’t help the smug satisfaction swelling in his chest at her answers. “Come on,” he chided, leaning in even more, his tone dropping a notch lower as his eyes caught hers with renewed focus. “You can’t tell me you don’t have anyone. A girl like you?”

She met him, leaning forward as well, her eyes narrowing. “What exactly do you mean by ‘a girl like me,’ Mr. Nashton?”

He swallowed, feeling her focus trail over him, the intensity of her gaze keeping him rooted. “I mean,” he began, his voice measured, “someone as… bold and clearly self-assured as you.”

Her expression didn’t waver, but there was a slight lift to her brow, a barely-there smile playing on her lips. He watched as she lifted her glass, raising it in acknowledgment before taking a slow, lingering sip, her eyes never leaving his. His pulse quickened as he traced the graceful line of her wrist, the way her lips pressed against the glass.

“Funny,” she simpered, “I could say the same about you.”

With a shake of his head, he tried to wrest some of the control from her. “Well, you’re not wrong, I suppose.” Finally, noticing his overly interested position, he settled back against his chair once more. “Although my self-confidence is warranted. I am a genius, after all, and that is where our similarities diverge.”

“You don’t think I’m on your level?” she challenged. “Even just a little?”

“Not in the least. You’re lucky I consider you worthy of my attention, period.”

Romy regarded him with that easy gaze, studying him for a moment. Her lips pulled to one side in thought as she swirled her drink. She took a sip before speaking. “Do you watch cartoons, Mr. Nashton?”

“Cartoons?” The word dripped with confusion, curiosity, and contempt at the sudden change of subject. It didn’t even feel right coming out of his mouth. “I barely watch television as it is, much less something so mind-numbing and childish. I respect the artist, despise the work.”

“Shame.” She tilted her head, undeterred. “I quite like to turn my brain off at times. Dumb bimbo is my alter ego, you know.”

Edward grinned, his eyes narrowing in amusement. “You mean to tell me there’s a side of you more dumb than this one?”

“Yeah, you haven’t met her. Yet. She’s fun.” Romy settled into her chair, one arm folded over her middle once more, martini in her other hand. “Do you know what one of my favorite cartoon characters is?”

“I’m not even going to entertain a question that should be rhetorical, so just tell me.”

“Fair. It’s experiment 625, Reuben. He’s from Lilo and Stitch. Have you heard of it?”

“I’m aware.”

“M’kay.” She shifted in her seat, turning to throw her legs over an armrest, now lounging sideways in her chair. She smoothed her skirt into an appropriate position, and his eyes followed the movement. “Well, experiment 625 is just like experiment 626, Stitch, in every way imaginable: super strength, a brain faster than a supercomputer, with the ability to alter his body, among other things. But do you know what?” This time, her question was rhetorical. She began to pet his scarf with her free hand. “He, for the most part, chooses not to use his abilities. He likes making sandwiches.”

“Sandwiches?” Edward sighed, settling an arm against his chair and letting his palm cradle his cheek. “I assume there is a point to this.”

“Absolutely. Continuing on.” She twirled a single fringe of his scarf around a lithe finger absently, and he felt his lips quirk up, watching her look so relaxed while wearing something of his. “What Reuben does have over Stitch is the ability to speak fluently, meaning he is the more socially acceptable cousin.” She swirled her drink thoughtfully. “Funny, huh?” She gave him a pointed look. “To have this ideal character, better in every way, yet they choose not to indulge in all these special abilities?”

Edward arched an eyebrow, a grimace tugging at his lips. “So, you’re comparing yourself to a sandwich-making alien with untapped potential? That’s... different.” His tone was dry, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of intrigue.

She didn’t falter, holding his gaze as she continued, her expression thoughtful yet playful. “Not at all. I’ve tapped my potential, and it is endless… I’m just trying to say that having power and knowing when to use it—or when not to—is a kind of intelligence in itself.” She gestured with her drink. “Reuben could be out there showing off, proving at every turn how much better he is than Stitch. But he doesn’t feel the need to. He’s happy making sandwiches. He’s secure enough to not perform for anyone.”

A flash of irritation crossed Edward’s face. “Are you suggesting I’m… insecure? Please tell me this is that dumber side you were talking about?”

“No, she only comes out in the bedroom.” Her smile was slow, mischievous, her eyes glinting in a way that made him shift uncomfortably in his seat. The words branded themselves in his brain, but she didn’t give him time to linger on them. “No, no, I’m suggesting that maybe I could be just as good as you. Maybe I just don’t brag about it.”

A tight smirk curved across his lips, his eyes narrowing with a glint that was both dismissive and amused. “Princess, even on your best day, you’d be lucky to keep up with me. The difference between us,” he leaned in, lowering his voice to a smooth, mocking whisper, “is that I know I’m leagues above anyone in this city—and the world.” He pursed his lips. “But it’s cute… You’re like a candle trying to outshine the sun.”

“Oh, really?” She arched a brow, a sly smile playing on her lips as she met his gaze with bold confidence. “Because it sounds to me like you’re a little… rattled.” She lowered her voice, letting it linger on the last word just enough to make his jaw clench. “Maybe you’re worried I’ll figure out just how to catch up to you. Or maybe…” She finally righted herself in her seat, letting the scarf fall from her hands as she eagerly leaned toward him, casually pointing her finger, “You’re afraid I already have.”

He chuckled, a dark, sarcastic sound. “Catch up to me?” he scoffed, pulling back just enough to look down his nose at her. “That would imply you’ve even managed to find the starting line. You’re a quick study, I’ll give you that, but let’s not pretend you’re anywhere near my level.”

“Yet here I am, keeping you on your toes. I like watching you squirm when I push back,” she replied smoothly, tossing him a wink. “And I think you like it too.”

For a split second, his composure faltered, his eyes widening briefly before he adjusted his glasses to mask the movement. “You think too highly of yourself, princess,” he murmured. “You mistake my tolerance for interest.”

“C’mon, if you’re so convinced that I don’t measure up, then why are you here with me?”

It was a question that dug into his mind, rooting itself in the places he’d carefully guarded, the spaces where he refused to examine his own motives too closely. Edward had always been skilled at avoiding these moments—sidestepping them, brushing them off with biting remarks and careful indifference. But now, as she leaned back with that air of satisfaction, a spark in her eyes that saw right through him, he couldn’t look away.

He forced a smirk, wanting to shrug off her question with his usual ease. But something stopped him, and for once, he felt the faintest crack in his composure—a sensation like standing on a ledge, caught between the desire to leap and the impulse to pull back.

Why am I here? The thought repeated itself, annoyingly persistent, like a melody he couldn’t quite shake.

She wasn’t like the others who passed through his life, the people he dismissed without a second thought. Everyone else was an NPC, but she seemed to be her own character. Intriguing, yes, but more than that. She challenged him, confronted him, refused to accept his superiority without question, yet she didn’t dismiss him either. And that, right there, he realized, was what drew him to her like a magnet, even as he resisted admitting it.

Edward looked at her, taking in the calm confidence in her posture, the subtle satisfaction in her eyes. In the silence between them, he felt something unsettling—an odd, prickling vulnerability that he rarely let himself feel, much less display.

“Entertainment, I suppose,” he offered finally, his voice steady but faintly strained. He tried to hold her gaze, but her steadiness unnerved him, filling him with an awkwardness he wasn’t used to feeling. “I’ve been a little bored. Your presence has been a passing infatuation.” He attempted to minimize the notion with a wave of his hand, hoping it would deflect whatever uncomfortable feeling was creeping up his neck.

Romy raised an eyebrow, the amusement in her eyes deepening as a sneaky smile spread across her lips. “Huh, ‘infatuation?’” she echoed, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass before finishing the last sip with elegant ease. “Interesting word choice.”

He cleared his throat, immediately regretting his verbiage. “Don’t read too much into it,” he muttered, glancing to the side. “Your pretty little head might explode from the strain.”

She let out a soft tut, wagging a slender finger in mock disapproval, a sly look in her eye. “Now, c'mon, if the roles were reversed, I’m sure you’d be saying,” her voice dipped to mimic his, “‘Words have meaning, you little twit.’”

His cheeks warmed, and he narrowed his eyes. “...That was a terrible impression.”

“But where’s the lie?”

Edward clenched his jaw, the muscles working in a restrained attempt to keep his smirk from breaking into a grin. His fingers tightened around his glass, swirling the amber liquid as he watched her with a mixture of disdain and reluctant admiration.

“‘Well, well, well, how the turntables…’” she trailed off with a chuckle as she sat back, quite pleased with herself.

A laugh escaped Edward, low and quiet, as he shook his head. There was something disarming about the way Romy looked at him, the way she wasn’t afraid to be silly around him. “You’re an idiot…” he murmured, the insult softened by the faintest hint of a smile. He finished his drink.

“I’m your idiot,” she replied smoothly, her lips curling into a self-satisfied smirk that made his heart pound in a way he wasn’t proud of.

His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Instead, he brought his drink slowly to his lips, finishing the rest in two big gulps. It burned. He hissed softly. Before he could form a response, she glanced at his glass, then gestured with her own. “You want another?”

For a second, he forgot how to respond. There was something about the way she said things, the confidence in her interactions, that made his mind go blank. “Uh…” He coughed, trying to shake off the awkwardness. “Sure,” he managed, swallowing down the strange nervousness that was beginning to knot in his stomach.

She watched him, calm and composed, tapping a nail against the side of her glass—thinking. There was a glint in her eyes as she said, “You know, you are the most intriguing man I’ve ever met, Mr. Edward Nashton…” She sighed and reached over to the wall to pull the beaded string. He didn’t miss how her lips curled, more for herself than him.

He felt his ears burn and his eyes darted down to the ice in his empty glass. “Oh?” he said, trying to sound indifferent, though his voice cracked slightly.

She looked back at him, tilting her head, studying him as if reading every unspoken thought, every flicker of uncertainty in his expression. “Yeah.” Then, innocently, she added, “It’s hot.”

Hot?

The word echoed in Edward’s mind, sending a spark of confusion and intrigue spiraling through him. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling his pulse hammering in his throat, his mind scrambling to process what she’d just said. His ego told him it was probably a slip, an offhand comment she threw out casually, but the way she said it—the slight drop in her voice, the faint smirk lingering at the corner of her mouth—made him wonder if there was something more intentional behind it.

A faint, frustrating warmth crept up his neck, an embarrassing betrayal of his own body’s reaction. Hot? Really? Was that a joke, or does she actually…? He glanced at her, still lounging in her chair as if she were utterly unaware of the effect she’d had on him. His eyes traced the curve of her legs, her skirt riding just slightly higher than it had been a moment ago, and he caught himself staring before forcing himself to look away. Control yourself, Edward.

He cleared his throat, his fingers gripping the empty glass as he tried to suppress the feeling of utter bewilderment. This wasn’t something he was prepared for—flirting, seduction, or anything remotely connected to someone finding him… attractive. He was brilliant, yes, he knew that, but physical appeal? The idea had barely crossed his mind. Intriguing, he could understand—interesting, certainly—but… hot? His brain felt like it was short-circuiting as he replayed her words, overanalyzing every syllable, every glimmer in her eye, every subtle shift in her expression.

Meanwhile, Romy was speaking to the waitress, ordering their next drinks as if nothing monumental had just happened, her tone casual, smooth. But the entire time, all Edward could see was that smirk—the one that seemed to know exactly what she was doing. His throat felt dry, and he shifted in his seat, his pulse refusing to slow as he realized just how disarmed he felt. Disarmed and—God, he hated to admit it—even a little flustered.

When the waitress finally walked away, he was still staring, trying to piece together a coherent response. For once, his mind wasn’t providing answers, only questions. 

Why did she say that? 

Did she mean it? 

Is she playing some sick game? 

Where does she get this confidence, this natural sensuality that seems to permeate her every movement? 

Does she know what effect she has on people?

The effect she has on me?

Surely, she must be aware. Surely, she must know how her every look, every word, every movement captivates. Sometimes even he forgot how much younger she was than him. Her feminine wiles seemed too mature, too practiced, too easy for someone of her age—not that he had much experience with women in this setting.

There was a flash of discomfort in his chest, breaking the trance. He had to look away from her. It was too much. She is too much.

She’s my student, he reminded himself. Technically, he was her preceptor, assigned to help her learn the ins and outs of cybercrime investigation. He hadn’t asked for this, but there was a sense of propriety thrust upon him. That reminder stirred uneasily, bringing a sense of her being forbidden. She was young—fresh-faced, clever, and yet, she wielded this maturity, this allure, that was far beyond her years. Still, a part of him knew there was a boundary here.

That thought jolted him even further when another realization hit—this boundary meant something different. She had been taken advantage of by someone in a position of trust, someone meant to support her. That knowledge coiled around his chest like a cold, constricting band.

He shifted in his seat. She hadn’t deserved to be taken advantage of. She hadn’t deserved to have people impose their desires on her or to bear the burden of another’s selfishness, even if she held the power to enrapture. He swallowed thickly, the taste of whiskey lingering on his tongue, bitter, forcing him to temper his thoughts.

When he finally looked back up, she was studying him quietly, as if sensing the shift in his expression. Candy returned dutifully with two fresh drinks, setting them down between them before traipsing off. He made a note of how the blonde glanced back at Romy once more as she sashayed away—and how Romy’s eyes remained on him.

How? How does the world seem to revolve around her?

“Do you ever wonder how people see you?” Edward’s words were thoughtful, his voice lower. 

Romy tilted her head, studying him for a moment longer before she reached for her glass. “Oh, absolutely,” she replied, voice smooth. “I worry about what people see, what they think… I like attention—I won’t deny. I worry about how I look, how I sound, how I present…” She swirled her toothpick full of olives in her drink, her eyes turning pensive before she curled her tongue around one of those salty treats and pulled it into her pink mouth. He couldn’t look away from the movement even if he tried. “But people also see what they want to see,” she spoke through a busy mouth. Then, after swallowing, she clicked her tongue, leaning back as if settling into her own thoughts. She gave him a pointed look. “The real question is if they ever bother to look beyond the surface.”

“Right…” Edward studied her for a long moment, his expression curious. Somehow, he felt like he’d only seen the tip of the iceberg. And he wanted to dive in and see all of her.

Finally, he shifted, picking up his glass and glancing down, avoiding her easy gaze. “About…” He cleared his throat, his eyes finding a coaster with an art-deco design framing the establishment’s name. He sighed and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his glass in hand. “About that case. The one you told mentioned yesterday…” He looked up.

Edward watched her carefully, taking in every subtle flicker of her expression, every carefully controlled movement. She kept her gaze steady, not breaking, but he noticed it—the tightening at the corners of her mouth, the slight shift in her posture, the way her fingers tightened around the stem of her coupe.

This was new for her.

“What about it?” she retorted, her voice flat and dismissive, before taking a casual sip of her drink.

He glanced away again, searching for the right words. “I… I wanted to say that…” His voice faltered, a hint of frustration flashing as he continued, almost muttering, “...If I—” Ugh, no. “If you felt misjudged…” 

His throat felt tight, face felt hot. Edward hated this. He couldn’t even continue. He gritted his teeth, brows furrowing. He couldn’t look at her. Shame, being wrong, was not something he wore well.

“Mr. Nashton,” her voice was clipped, “you’re not the first to judge, and you definitely won’t be the last.” He watched as her eyes narrowed, an intensity beneath them that felt pointed, almost challenging. “But your pity is the last thing I want.” Her words were firm, carrying a bite that left no room for misinterpretation.

“I’m not…” he started, feeling the sting of embarrassment prickling at his skin. He wasn’t used to being at a loss, wasn’t used to these softer conversations. He wasn’t used to not being good at something. He steeled his gaze. “I’m not pitying you.”

“Good,” she quipped with a derisive look. “I’d much rather be despised, hated, than pitied.” The edge in her voice was unmistakable, a warning not to press further, but he noticed the way she shifted in her seat, looking away as though tired of the topic. There was something guarded in the way she spoke. “...That case, that whole—thing—it doesn’t define me, you know?” She shrugged, the movement tight but practiced. “It happened. It was terrible. I was angry. I cried. I screamed. I asked, ‘why me.’ I did therapy. I moved on. So what.” 

All he could do was nod, absorbing her words, watching how she presented them as if they were a story she’d told a hundred times—rehearsed and polished until it barely stung. But he could see something else, something unspoken. The ease with which she recounted it unsettled him, made him feel as though he was missing something, a layer hidden just out of reach. She spoke as if it were all behind her, but he sensed a deeper rage buried beneath the surface, a fire she kept smothered, disguised as calm.

“Do you wonder what your life could have been like if… you know… if that didn’t happen?” he asked, softer than he intended, almost tentative.

There was a pause, a flicker of something in her expression, but she didn’t let it show. “Yeah…” She nodded, speaking with a calm that felt too steady. “But I don’t ruminate on it. Rumination can be dangerous… No, if anything, I have to find the good in the situation; otherwise, it would drive me fucking insane.” She was far too calm as she said it, too even-toned. “It’s what got me here. What I went through… it’s what made me decide to work in digital forensics.”

He watched her closely, trying to see past the mask, but she didn’t give him anything more. Her voice was calm, almost detached, as if she were discussing someone else’s life. “You know, I thought I wanted to be a detective at one point, but with my tech experience, with everything I taught myself back then—I decided this was a better fit. Like, I can help uncover truths and stuff, and bring out the things that people want to keep hidden.”

His gaze sharpened, lingering on the way she spoke about it. There was a sense of purpose in her words, but also a restraint, as if she were choosing each word carefully. He wanted to push, to ask more, but he knew that one wrong move would make her shut down completely.

“Do you not still feel angry?” he pressed, watching for any sign of emotion.

Her response was quick, almost impatient. “Of course I do.” She sighed, shifting in her seat and rolling her eyes, taking a long, deliberate sip of her drink. “But all anger does is cloud the mind, cause heart disease, and steal joy. Letting my anger steal my joy…” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Well, then it would mean I’m letting that fucker win, now wouldn’t it?” There was something in her gaze he couldn’t quite place, but her words hit a little too close to home. “And I hate to lose, Mr. Nashton…”

There.

Now he could name the look in her eyes—a determination, a fierceness—but he also saw the way she’d locked herself up, hidden behind layers of composure and control. In his own life, Edward knew what it was to be violated, to be used and discarded by others. He understood rage, the kind that festered under the skin, a constant hum of resentment he’d carried for years. He’d built himself on that rage, fortified himself with mistrust, sharpened his edges to keep everyone at bay.

And here she was, sitting across from him, having faced her own horrors and still choosing to let it shape her but not letting it consume her. It was both unsettling and intriguing, this calm resilience that felt like armor and disguise all at once.

“So, now you know.” Romy broke the stillness. Her voice was calm, practiced, but he noticed the faint edge to it, the way she tilted her glass toward him with just enough force to keep the conversation at arm’s length. “But don’t get too serious about it. I’m not, like, some,” she gestured vaguely, rolling her eyes as she settled back into the plush pink chair, the picture of control, “tragic figure, or whatever.”

Edward nodded once, letting her words marinate. He didn’t believe her—not entirely. He saw the cracks, the flickers of something raw behind her blasé expression, the flashes of discomfort and anger she was trying to bury under layers of indifference. She was too good at this, too practiced in steering the narrative away from vulnerability. He recognized it because it was a skill he’d honed himself. And maybe that was why it frustrated him so much—why it made him want to peel back the layers and see what she was hiding beneath. But he knew better than to push.

She was a puzzle that wouldn’t be solved by force.

Finally, after a long moment of observing one another, he sighed and lifted his glass, letting it hover between them in respectful acknowledgment.

“To not being tragic.”

The look on her face was blasé, indifferent, that half-lidded gaze she always defaulted to. Sometimes it was unnerving how easily she slipped between her emotions. And yet, as she lifted her glass in return, there was a flicker of something—humor, maybe, or defiance. One corner of her lips quirked up in a way that felt deliberate, calculated.

“To being intriguing.”

Edward wondered if her gin and vermouth burned as much as his whiskey. He also wondered if she felt the shift between them, if she felt the waters calm as he did.

The conversation flowed effortlessly the rest of their time together, the tension stripped away after what she had shared. Any topic felt easy to navigate now—work anecdotes, playful teasing, snippets of personal history here and there. She laughed, he chuckled, and the evening unfolded with a warmth he hadn’t felt in ages—probably never before—both of them tuned into the same frequency.

When Romy finally glanced at her watch, a shiny, dainty silver thing on her slender wrist, with faint surprise crossed her features. “Oh, it’s late,” she murmured, talking to herself, already reaching for her bag and coat. “I hate to leave good company,” she relented with a wistful sigh, “but I have a house luncheon tomorrow.”

As she rose, her balance wavered for a moment, and she caught herself with a soft, melodic giggle and her fingers to her mouth that sent a thrill down his spine. There was something endearing about seeing her like this, a little less guarded, her cheeks flushed, her laugh bubbling up without restraint. It was a stark difference to the uncomfortable tension she’d carried earlier. 

Edward’s lips curved into a small, smug smirk, feeling oddly pleased with himself for noticing the signs of her increasing inebriation long before she did.

“We need to close out,” she announced, pulling on her coat with a casual, practiced motion, her fingers fumbling and working the buttons.

“Already done,” he replied smoothly, catching the slight arch of her brow as she paused, looking up at him.

“When did you do that?” She sounded genuinely surprised, a bewildered look crossing her features as she adjusted his scarf and pulled her ponytail out of her coat.

“When you went to the bathroom.”

She rolled her eyes, a small smirk pursing her lips. “And you just assumed I was done?” She headed toward the exit, a separate staircase that allowed the mystery of the call box entrance to remain.

Edward shrugged, a hint of smug satisfaction in his expression as he followed her. “I deduced after your third martini and the way you were wobbling on those little heels of yours, you may be reaching your capacity.”

Romy lifted her chin with defiance as he passed her to hold the first door open. “You underestimate my tolerance. I’m no lightweight…” He couldn’t help how his gaze softened at the sight of her lips, full and pink and shaped in that cute, indignant pout. She was beautiful and bold and entirely too captivating, even in this tipsy state.

“At any rate,” she continued, her gaze easing, just slightly, “thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

“No problem, princess,” he replied, the usually teasing nickname now slipping out with a familiar ease that felt strange but right.

They both descended the stairs, the sound of her heels clopping behind him with each step, going slow. “I'll have to catch you next time.”

“You assume there will be a next time.” At the bottom, he held the door open for her once more.

When she walked by, her shoulder grazed his arm, and she didn’t look at him. She only lilted a simple, “There will be.”

The two of them stepped outside, and Edward raised a hand to hail a cab while Romy immediately fished in her bag to find her vape. The night was crisp, Gotham’s cold air whipping at his face, and he glanced behind, watching as she made her way toward him, a light sway in her step. Her cheeks were flushed, a trace of warmth still lingering from the evening’s drinks, and her lips parted slightly when she exhaled that vapor vice of hers.

A cab pulled up, and Edward walked with her toward it, feeling the weight of the night settle between them in the chilly street. Only after he opened the car door did Romy pause, turning to face him mid-stride with a look that caught him off guard. In the low light of the streetlamp above, he noticed the subtle glimmer in her verdant eyes, an ember that smoldered.

He watched, entranced, hand lingering on top of the door as she stepped close, the world around him blurring until it was just her. The night air still nipped at his skin, but now he barely felt it. Her hands reached up, steady, to remove his scarf from her shoulders, and he noted the small vape still clasped between her fingers.

But it was her smile—an almost knowing curve of her lips—that caught him, that made his chest tighten with anticipation. He stood erect, tensing when she lifted her arms and looped the scarf back around him. His breath hitched when her manicured nails grazed the skin of his neck as she adjusted the fabric with an attentiveness that felt… intimate. There was a deliberate slowness in the way she moved, a lingering touch that seemed designed to draw him deeper into the quiet spell she was casting.

Then, Romy’s gaze dropped, almost imperceptibly, to his lips, and Edward felt a particular tightness in his chest, a constriction that made it hard to breathe. He realized, with a sudden intensity, the focus in her eyes. It was a look that was as fascinating as it was terrifying.

Why was she looking at him like that? Why was she teasing him? Why was she doing this? He should tell her to back off, to not touch him. To keep her clawed hands, smug smiles, and intoxicatingly intriguing essence to herself. But her fingers still clutched the edges of his scarf, knuckles resting against his chest, and he swore he felt the faintest, almost imperceptible tug, a gentle pressure that made him inhale sharply. His hand tightened on the doorframe.

“I had a nice time, Mr. Nashton.”

The words were soft, sweet, and paired with a sultry look that made him feel as if he was on the verge of melting right there in the middle of Gotham’s gritty streets—a mere puddle of a man oozing into the drainage grates. She spoke his name with a fondness, a huskiness that was deliberate, and each syllable drew his focus to her lips, plush and slightly parted, curved in a way that hinted at a secret she wouldn’t yet share. He was suddenly hyper-aware of every little detail—the natural lines of her mouth, her white teeth peeking through, the faintest hint of berry coloring, a remnant of her lip product lost to the coupe glass rims.

The sight made his mind wander, his imagination betraying him. He wondered if she would taste as sweet as she always looked. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, torn between the impulse to lean closer and the maddening restraint he tried to cling to. He faltered when he caught that smirk of hers, the higher tilt of her chin toward his face, the sheer confidence that made him feel completely unmoored. 

Edward found himself lowering closer, eyes flicking over her pretty face.

“‘ey, meter’s running, lovebirds!”

The cabbie’s voice was thick and phlegmy, an unwelcome reminder of the disgusting world outside of her perfection.

Edward’s head snapped toward the driver, irritation twisting his features. He was milliseconds from clapping back, from telling the driver exactly where he could stick his meter, but then he felt another, bolder tug of his scarf. The sensation jolted him, and he closed his mouth, teeth clacking, wide gaze flitting back to hers.

With an easy smile, Romy finished smoothing down the scarf, fingers lingering just a beat too long against the fabric. “Goodnight, sir,” she drawled, the words slipping from her lips with a languid lilt that left him dizzy. The ground felt unsteady, as if she had shifted his world by half an inch, leaving him trying to recalibrate.

In a deliberate motion, she teased his scarf, stepping back with that trademark ease and letting the end fall from her fingertips. She brought the vape to her plush lips, the small device poised between her fingers with rebellious elegance as she inhaled. Her eyes remained fixed on his, unblinking, holding his gaze with a steady confidence that bordered on a dare. Then, with a slow exhale, she let the silvery vapor curl between them, drifting away in the night air. “See ya next week.” A cheeky smile pulled at the corners of her mouth, teeth flashing and biting the tip of her tongue as she backed into the open door.

All he could manage was a meek nod and a tight “night,” keenly aware of the heat creeping up his neck and face.

Finally, she slipped into the cab, and he watched, eyes following, to make sure she was in before he shut the door—an automatic movement, something he didn’t have to think about as he lost all executive functioning. For a brief moment, her figure was illuminated by the soft glow of the interior lights, casting her face in warm hues that shaped her silhouette. Those lips of hers moved, presumably speaking to the driver. The cab pulled away into the snowy night, fading into the hazy glow of streetlights and the faint gleam of freshly fallen snow. And then, she was gone.

Edward stood there, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, now feeling the sting of cold air against his flushed skin. He reached up absently to adjust the scarf, his fingers brushing the fabric as he tugged it closer. Then, he paused, eyes flicking down to the material on his chest and neck. A faint, unmistakable smell clung to it, woven into the plum-colored material. It was delicate but persistent. Shifting the scarf closer, he closed his eyes and inhaled. 

The sensation of her hands felt fresh, the sound of her lilting voice echoed, her playful smirk was burned into his retinas, and as he turned to head home, the scent of lavender and vanilla followed.

Ao3 link here!

[pearl-blue-musings]

Hewooo, so english isn't my first language, so I apologize if this isn't great. I had to use Google translate for some parts because I didn't know how to word it correctly. But I wanted to do something nice for you <3 I hope you like it Elle! ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Kei Tsukishima sat on the plush, light gray sofa in the living room of their often shared apartment. The usually stoic volleyball player had set aside his–at times seemingly–detached demeanor in favor of something more, personal, cozy even. He had taken the time to light up his girlfriend Elle’s candles, the ones with the vanilla and lavender scents that sat atop the small coffee table in the center of the room alongside a steaming mug of tea waiting for her. The sounds of the shower had stopped a couple of minutes ago, and nothing but the faint sounds of steps could be heard from the dimly lit hallway opposite of the room. His attention made an effort to school itself back to the long forgotten book in his hand, however, he could not deny the little flip his heart made when the bathroom door finally slid open. Elle stepped out, clad in a fluffy looking mint green robe, her dark skin aglow with that post-shower radiance complimented by how effortlessly her damp wavy locks framed her pretty face. “Hey you,” she greeted with a light tone. Sharp, golden brown eyes glanced her way from above the rim of his dark glasses. “Hey yourself,” he said, yet the tone was not one of hostility, but one of hidden amusement. The scent of the lit candles and freshly brewed tea did not go unnoticed by Elle. "Well, well, look who decided to play house," she teased, her eyes twinkling with surprise and delight as she took in the scene.

A smirk played over Kei’s lips from behind the book he had delved back into, his facade cracking a bit. “Don’t get used to it. It’s a one time deal,” he said, but his tone was playful and gaze soft as in a moment of rarity, the blond reached for the other’s wrist, pulling her into his lap in one swift, and practiced move. "Oh, I think I could get very used to this," she said while the sliver of a playful smile danced over her lips.

A strong arm looped around her waist as he leaned forward, easily reaching for the mug of tea across from them. He handed her the mug, their fingers brushing in the exchange. "Drink up.”

One sip and her eyes immediately closed in contentment. The mixture of flavors danced gloriously in her mouth. She tried to figure out exactly what they were, but nothing other than sweet and spicy came to mind. "You're full of surprises, Kei Tsukishima."

He leaned in, his lips brushing her forehead in a gentle kiss. "Maybe I am,” he paused, eyes meeting hers, the traces of a smirk threatening to make their appearance again. Before she could respond, he leaned in, capturing her lips in a gentle kiss, a promise of comfort and affection in the brief touch.

Elle's response was immediate, her hand finding his cheek, deepening the kiss for a moment before pulling back with a soft smile. "Keep this up, and I might start to think you're going soft."

A wry chuckle left him, body shifting as he placed the book aside, his now free hand moving to gently tuck her loose waves behind her ears. “Don’t bet on it.”

Elle leaned into him, her head resting on his shoulder, letting the warmth of the tea and his presence wash over her. Kei’s hold of her tightened, pulling her closer, his usual boundaries dissolving in the intimacy of the moment.

"Stay like this for a while?" Elle whispered, her voice a blend of hope and fatigue.

"As long as you need," Kei responded, kissing the top of her head, sealing the moment with a silent promise to be there, not just for the tough times, but for all the moments in between. The night settled around them, the tea forgotten as they found solace in each other's company, the world outside their little cocoon momentarily at peace.

Hi hello this is literally my reaction cause AAAAHHHHHHHHH 😭😭😭😭😭

You my dear are too kind. I had to make sure I was in an okay headspace to respond because I legit cried. This is just so incredibly nice of you and I literally?? Couldn’t tell?? English isn’t your first language????? Because this blew me away and all my followers should see this!! I’m honestly shocked you saw what I wrote and the fact that I needed that motivation to shower and you just 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 thank you from the bottom of my heart 💜

[asha-mage]

edelgard and dimitri (platonic/siblings), reincarnation

[Send me a character (or ship) and a one word prompt and I will write you a small ficlet or drabble based on it!]

Edelgard glared at the papers spread out before her- trying to will the various reports, correspondences, and ledgers into some form she liked better. She felt old today- old and gray and worn out. There had been more days like that recently. Too many. They didn’t yet outnumber the days where she felt strong and able, passionate and fierce, but they were not negligible anymore either.

It was the price for what had been done to her she knew, when the Agarthans had forged her into a living weapon. That strength did not define her any longer- what defined her was what always had: her will, her determination, her refusal to surrender onto uncertain fate. But the price still had to be paid.

Sighing Edelgard pulled the next stack to her- trade reports out of Gronder Field. There was a problem with the sugar crop- some blight on the cane stalks that would need to be dealt with if she wanted to keep sugar prices from skyrocketing- and she would need to review the wheat taxes again if she wanted to keep Fodlan grain competitive with Almyran. But before she could do more then begin examining the top sheet there was a knock at her study door.

Edelgard looked up and smiled at who she saw standing there. As always something about August, about the tilt of his eyes maybe, or the shy corner of his smile, made Edelgard’s throat catch a little bit. It wasn’t the joy of a parent seeing themselves in their child- Edelgard knew that feeling well with August and knew this emotion to be something else. This was something sharper, something edged in glass as it rattled around her ribcage.

“Good morning Augie.” Edelgard said, setting down the sheet on the pile. “What can I do for you?”

August chewed at his lip for a moment before coming fully into her study. He was almost twelve now, and his mop of black curls had grown enough to hang down almost over his eyes. He had unfortunately inherited his father’s complexion on top of it and some of his reserved manner, creating an effect that most the court regarded as cringing and shy. But Edelgard knew better. She knew that if she pushed back his unruly bangs and reminded him to stand straighter, he would. At age ten there was already there was already a fierce light in this lavender eyes, and when he forgot himself enough to find confidence, a air of command and strength that would serve him well one day.

Of all the miracles that had come from forging a real peace in Fodlan, August had been the most unexpected, and the most beloved.

But at this moment he was more unsure than she had ever seen him before. He plucked at the hem of his coat as if hot, and he refused to meet her eyes as he settled in the chair before her desk. Edelgard felt her guard rise and she sat back in her chair, squaring her shoulders more out of old habit then real thought their might be need.

“Augie.” Edelgard tried again, letting the lightness slip from her voice in favor of seirouness. “What is wrong?”

“I don’t know how too….” August began then cut off. For a moment he seemed unable to go on, words failing him, but then all in a rush he said, to fast for her to understand, one word spilling into the next. “Whatwasuncledimitrilike?”

Before she could begin to sort through it he began to breath heavily, one hand going to his chest and Edelgard felt panic flare in her. Their had been so much worry during his infancy and childhood- what the experiments done to Edelgard might mean for a child. Their had been some doubt he would even last a year, and though he was heart and hale now, some fears never left a mother’s mind once allowed in.

He began to speak again, gesturing wildly, but it was to fast for her to understand, and she thought their was a wildness in whatever he was trying to communicate.

“Augie! Slow down! Breathe.” Edelgard said, cutting across him and trying to hide how bewildered she was. She stood and moved to the small drink cart she kept in her office for entertaining dignitaries and officials, pouring out a glass of water and handing it to Augie. “I need you to breath.”

August took the water with shaking hands and gulped it down in a single great swallow that made Edelgard’s eyebrows rise higher. For a moment she considered summoning Hubert, but decided against it the next second. Hubert loved his son, but Edelgard did not think he could help much in this situation.

When August had managed a few steadying breaths Edelgard rested a hand on his shoulder and moved to sit beside him in one of the plush chairs arrayed before her desk. It was a small thing, but maybe it would help him see her as a mother, a source of comfort, rather than the all powerful Emperor in this moment. “Augie.” She said firm but not unkind. “Please, try again.”

August turned his gaze to the bottom of the glass and when he spoke it was in little more than a whisper, but Edelgard’s ears were sharp enough to catch each word on their own this time. But understanding the words shed no clarity on anything.

“What was Uncle Dimitri like?”

For a long moment Edelgard stared down at August trying to understand, to wrap her head around where this had come from, and how it connected to this fear, raw as an open nerve. But in the end all she could do was answer the question.

“He was kind.” Edelgard said simply. It was the truth- or as much of the truth as mattered to her. She chose to remember Dimitri as the sweet boy with the idealistic naivety, who had stumbled trying to learn to dance. Not as the Maelstrom King, the cold blooded tyrant Rhea had forged him into. “Gentle hearted. Fair minded He never paid any mind to station or birth or blood.” She smiled, and if there was a note of bitterness to it, it was only for the circumstances that had drawn them into conflict. She shook free and turned her gaze back to August, trying not to frown. “Why do you ask?”

August looked up from his glass, but instead of looking at her or answering her question, his eyes had found their way to her desk. He was gazing at the various things on it: a collection of ivory miniatures, one for each of the Black Eagle Strikeforce, a few lacquered boxes containing writing instruments and keepsakes. The hateful stacks of paper of course. Other Knick Knacks that had been gifted to her by various important officials and diplomats and that property demanded she display as a gesture of good will. Nothing to account for his interest- just a way to avoid meeting her gaze.

“Why did he oppose you then?” August asked quietly. “If he was so eagletarian? If he didn’t believe in class and wanted to treat everyone fairly?”

Edelgard blew out a breath. “Many reasons. Duty to begin with.” Duty to the ghosts and atrocities of the past, for which she could never blame him, even if she didn’t understand. “Loyalty to the Church.” That time there was no doubting the bitterness that slipped into her voice. There was much Edelgard could never forgive Rhea for, but maybe most of all what she had done with Dimitri’s kind heart and loyal soul. “But mostly…I think it was the belief that he had no other choice. That the future that we were fighting for was an idealistic fairy tale- and that his kingdom would not survive its coming.”

Again August fell into silence, staring at her desk. His eyes had locked onto one of the keepsake boxes, plain dark wood carved with flames. “….But you still call him brother. You still raised me to call him Uncle, and memorialized him in Faerghus.” August said quietly. “Even though he opposed you.”

Edelgard sighed. “I loved him, August. He was my brother. If I could have brought him over to our side, found a way to free Fodlan and keep him alive, I would have.”

August stood and moved forward. She didn’t call him down for the rudeness- not here and now. Something was strange about this, something delicate held within these words that she didn’t yet understand. He moved to her desk and laid a hand on the keepsake box. It held gifts from her former teachers. A fishing lure from Byleth, a painted fan from Mannuela, and an invention of Hannerman’s- all given to her in thanks for the funding she had provided for rebuilding the Officer’s Academy.

“But you did what you had to.” August said, his voice quiet and more afraid than Edelgard had ever heard it. “To protect the realm.”

Edelgard nodded. “I always will. That is the core of me. I…” It was her turn to look away. A hot burning had filled her throat, acid and sour. “I had to make a more just, more kind world in August.”

For the sake of the girl who had died in a cell beneath this very palace. Died screaming after watching all her siblings face the same fate. But unlike her siblings, that girl had been reborn, remade into something more- something fanged and cold and vicious. And for her suffering to have meaning, that girl’s pain to matter, she had to destroy the world that had made it possible. To free humankind from all those that would chain it. Nothing else would honor her.

August’s hand rested on the lid of the keepsake box and he took a deep shaking breath. “Mother I….” And again words seemed to fail him, his teeth biting into his lip hard enough to leave red marks in the flesh. Edelgard stood, to reassure him, to comfort him- to tell him those days were over and the world was free, and nothing would ever threaten him. But before she could her son spoke. “I’ve been having dreams.”

Edelgard blinked. “Dreams?” She repeated.

August nodded. “I...I've been dreaming of a field.” He said, his voice quiet and harsh. “Soaked in the rain. Long grassy hills made muddy and slippery by a downpour.” He turned his gaze down to his hand. “When I dream...there are three armies on that field.”

Alarm shot through Edelgard like a wildfire. But now that August had begun it seemed he had no idea how to stop. The words were falling from him in wave after wave.

“I’m marching across that field holding a spear of bone.” He lifted one hand and flexed his fingers as if able to feel its heft, its weight there. “And all around me are friends, allies, followers, subjects and ...and they're turning into monsters. Their flesh is warping before my eyes. Their screaming and snarling and becoming...beasts. Huge four legged lizards and twisted up masked brutes and…” He inhaled and his whole body shook. “And then their getting cut down, by….”

Edelgard didn’t need him to continue. She was there herself all over again. On the field where so many had died caked in mud and splattered with gore- their own and their enemy’s alike.

Rain is running down her face and her ax is flashing in her hands as she chops through the Umbral Beasts that stand between her and the Kingdom’s center line. All around her the Black Eagle Strikeforce is arrayed. The Church’s army is already retreating northwards, being harried by wyvern riders led by Petra, to keep them from circling back. The Empire need only break the Kingdom’s line to win the day and clear the path to Fhirdiad.

She is cold. Focused. Razor sharp, the way she always is in battle. If they do this, they're going to win. She will pull down the false Goddess, and she will burn out Those Who Sslither in the Dark and the world will be free. She will make it so with her own two hands, and with the aid of those who had stood by her, she would-

And then she sees him, coming towards her, Areadbhar twirling his hands as he slices through Imperial soldiers left and right, his blonde hair splattered back from his head by the rain, his blue eyes burning with fire, and with the glow of the Crest of Blaiddyd. Something inside of her aches at the sight of him, her brother, but she steals her heart. Hardens it to stone. She knows what must be done.

Their eyes meet and the hatred burning in him is alien and twisted. The innocent boy who had tried to give her a dagger was nothing but ashes. Only the Maelstrom King remained.

He bares his lance at her, point first, and she raises her ax and-

Edelgard was drawn out of her memory by the sound of the box opening. Her son had reached inside to pull out Hannerman’s invention- a miniature version of the instrument he had developed to detect Crests. Instead of a bulky array of metal and crystal, it’s no bigger then a compass: a simple glass orb held in metal circles. He had developed even smaller ones in the time since, Edelgard understood. It’s a novelty really, a token of his early research.

“August-“ Edelgard said, shaking herself. He flinched at the use of his full name but she pressed on ahead. “It doesn't mean anything. It’s just dreams. You’ve just been listening to too many history-“

But August shook his head. “I….I know things mother. That no history ever talks about. You hit him on the shoulder first, didn’t you? Here.” With his free hand he touches his shoulder, right above the joint, where it connects his body to his neck. Edelgard had- the first blow would have taken his head, if not cleaved him in half, had he not managed to dodge at just the right moment. She had managed only to draw blood instead. “He countered by spinning, then three quick stabs and-“

Edelgard shook her head. It was true, all of it, but that didn’t mean- “August. You're dreaming of the past then that’s all. This is some magic at work. Some part of…” Of being born of the Argathan’s Hegemon. Their new Nemesis. That was all. Lindhardt or Lystheia would be able to find an explanation, maybe a cure.

“I thought so too. I…I hoped so. But then I, this morning I-” He took a final deep breath and then switched on the device. She waited for the symbol of the Crest of Flames to appear, as it would have for Edelgard or Byleth. Or even the Crest of Seiros, that strange shield lighting up the darkness. Instead it glowed a soft, gentle blue as the strange fissured crystal of the Crest of Blaiddyd appeared on the metal orb instead.

For a while they both just stared at it, even as the light began to fade, the crystal orb blinking out to clear again. They both seemed to hold their breath. Waiting for what came next.

Edelgard looked at her son. Dark haired and pale but with her lavender eyes, and sharp jaw and courtly demeanor. And again that feeling, that glass edged thing rattling around her rib cage, made itself known. Only now she could put a name to it. Draw the line between the crinkle of his eyes, and the gentle swell of his laugh, and the shy tilt of his smile, and the boy she had once taught to dance in the gardens of the Royal Palace at Fhirdiad.

A thousand questions ran through her mind, a thousand fears and doubts- A mother’s fear for something unknown and possibly dangerous clawing at her child. A girl’s fear of long buried pain being exhumed into the light of day, with all its rank unfair decay. And yes, an Emperor’s fear, for what this might mean for the realm, for the future, for the peace she had labored so hard to make. It was a part of her, and there was no use in denying it. 

But it was not the only part of her, and here and now, in this place, it was not the strongest.

She stood and August flinched back as if expecting an attack, but Edelgard instead gently took him into her arms, folding her son into the circle of her strength. She thought of Dimitri in that moment, of all the ways she wished she could have protected him, shielded him, seen him flourish as she knew he could.

If only we were born in a time of peace, you might have lived a joyful life, as a benevolent ruler.

How often had she thought of those words, when long nights and exhaustion had dragged her back to that field, that battle, that moment? She had meant them. She still did.

“Ssshhhh.” Edelgard murmured as her son’s arms tightened around her middle and his tears started to fall. How long had this burden been weighing on him? A slowly steadily growing weight in his mind, that had finally become too heavy to bear? It didn’t matter. HE had come to her- maybe believing the worst, maybe hoping for it. But he would find none of that. They lived in a time of peace, a world set free from the sorrows that had destroyed him before. She didn’t know how or why this had happened. And she did not care. “I’m right here Augie. I’m right here.”

You are not alone this time Dima. This time, I am strong enough to protect us both.        

And she would, no matter what.

[lucygraysboy]

“would you like to supervise the process?” he offers with a smile, figuring she ought to have some sense of control over what’s happening to her most precious belonging. “also, i’ve been thinkin’… i’m sorry ‘bout what i said last night. ‘bout my ma’s scarf.” how he initially thought she must have stolen it and decided to take it away from her. “that was very wrong of me. it’s not like my ma will ever wear this scarf again or like just lookin’ at it, lyin’ there collectin’ dust, will bring her back or somethin’. maybe we could use the fabric to replace the missin’ ruffles on your dress? i think she’d like that.” it would give the dress a fresh look, some more color, and they would be reminded of both their mothers every time lucy gray put it on. of course, only if she allows it. “well, i don’t think there’s a covey as unique as ours out there. we win,” he laughs, dragging the twigs through her wet ringlets, fingers following. repeating the motion until there’s not a single tangle left. “horse playin’,” he echoes with a chuckle, basking in the sound of their happiness. suddenly, the little hut feels almost cozy, homey. filled with laughter and jokes, with a sense of togetherness. what else could anyone need? “no!” he’s quick to protest, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily just in case she decides to turn around and stand up, determined to protect her dignity and innocence. “i mean, no, thank you. an anatomy lesson won’t be necessary. not that i’ve ever seen a…” goodness gracious, what is he trying to confess? and why? what for? he scolds himself, cheeks burning, tongue tied with embarrassment. “i’m — it’s… oh! there’s other kinds of soap here!” he lays the makeshift brush on his lap and picks up the box that the previous owners must have left behind, occupying himself by taking out different bars of soap and sniffing them. “this one smells like lavender, and look, it’s such a pretty shade of purple, too.” he extends his hand, presenting the small, oval-shaped soap to the brunette. “how do you even make soap?” he wonders aloud, not the most subtle subject change but he prays it will do. 

listening intently, billy finds himself nodding his head in agreement. the subject of coriolanus seems to be a sore one for the both of them, in their own way and for somewhat different reasons. “oh, that one,” manipulation, “he’s been great at always. guess that’s an inherited talent,” he muses with a chuckle, trying to make the conversation a bit more light-hearted even if it’s ultimately impossible. “i think you know him a lot better than i do, and so you’re most likely right. somethin’ must have switched at some point.” as a boy, he seemed very much capable of loving others. or so it seemed to billy. who really knows? “you don’t know who the third was? what’d he say when you asked ‘bout it?” he wonders, scooping up some more water to pour down lucy gray’s back and shoulders. the one sentence that haunts him being — coriolanus seemed as nice as you. well, was he faking it the whole time? or is it some generational curse? “i’ll never lie to you, lucy gray. never turn on you,” he swears and then is left wondering whether she’d heard the same exact words before, from the mouth identical to his. “i’d never try to kill no one i hated either. i don’t think most people have that in ‘em.” the ability to just take life. “if one of my loved ones was in danger and it was either the bad guy goes or the person i care for… that’s the only time i would pull the trigger.” he would stop at nothing to protect her because a part of him feels deeply responsible for her, because she’s brought so much joy and meaning to his life, but would he kill his own twin brother if it came to it? he doesn’t even want to think about having to make that choice.

“you’ll always be safe with me, lucy gray.” feeling her warm skin on his, slender fingers keeping his hand in place, billy’s heart expands so impossibly that it’s a wonder his chest doesn’t just burst open. his cheeks rosy. she nuzzles into his palm like an affection-starved cat and something inside him cracks, his own eyes filling with tears. it’s a monumental moment, gaining some of her trust, and he promises to never jeopardize it. he won’t ever betray her. before he can do something stupid like leaning in and bumping their noses together or kissing her forehead, he clears his throat and speaks up, “is the water still warm? want me to boil some more?” the pad of his thumb stroking her skin, ever so carefully and with all the affection he has. 

"alright, i'll trust you with it." he's been so gentle with her hair, so she gives his forearm a pat and believes he'll do the same with her precious mama's dress. how kind of him too... to promise. "alright, mr. hair stylist." a little laugh dances out of her throat, doe eyes watching him get up and go over to the bed. "that's the best part about a covey... the more unique it is, the more special it is." lucy gray points out, sweetly smiling. "well, you ought to be careful there. don't go horse playin' around like that..." creating puns causing her to laugh as she watches him playfully stumble around with his eyes covered. "you're actin' like i showed somethin' already. if you need me to, i can just show you if you need schooled on female anatomy lessons." he clearly isn't the type to take her up on things like that, which is why she's saying it. just to provoke a shy look out of him again.

"no, believe me billy, you're entitled to your own opinion. i don't blame you for not agreein' with me at all. i don't even know if i agree with myself when there were moments coriolanus seemed as nice as you, i think he could have just been fakin' it the entire time. he's great at manipulation. but it sure is a mystery if all he was– was stuck up as a little one. then, all grown up he turned so cruel, selfish and dead on inside. maybe somethin' switched... between a father like that and the loss of your mother, somewhere between there. but it just hurts when someone betrays you. i felt he betrayed me when he lied to me about how many people i asked that he killed, two were valid. but the third... guess i'll never know. he betrayed me pretendin' he was coming along with me to live in the wilderness and the entire time, he was just lookin' out for himself. he betrayed me tryin' to kill me. it's the lord's work to take me outta the world, not him." angrily she spoke, and she truly feels sad for coriolanus and his soul. "he might not been born evil, but he was absolutely born with somethin' rotten. i'd never try to kill no one i hated– let alone cared for."

flinching in the slightest, but her hand comes up to keep his hand in place. she doesn’t want him to remove it. she wants to embrace a kind touch, feel it, as she turns hand over to feel his fingers against her skin. eyes watering, lower lip curving upwards, before affectionately nuzzling into his palm. it makes her deeply emotional. the kind touch, embracing she can’t always be scared of touch, the reassurance, the horrible conversation and ideas that someone she cared for would want to kill her. essentially, twice. because billy taupe nearly sent her to her grave getting involved with mayfair who sent her to the hunger games.

[kalmiaphlox]

Damn, this is what it feels like to be you?

AO3 Link / Masterlist

Part 1 / Part 3

Guide Me As You Do

Twisting his head up to rest his chin on her chest, Astarion smiles big and wide. Hircine is immediately suspicious, red eyes narrowed to slits, awaiting whatever he's about to say. “My love, can I play with my—yourself?” “Clarify.”

Pairing: Astarion x Named Female Tav (Hircine)

WC: 6.5k

Main Tags: Body Swap, Humor, Fluff, Smut, Body Worship, Guided Masturbation, Massages, Little Edging, and stretching because its good for the body.

A/N: Don't walk on people's back. it really isn't good for the spine.

A big thank you to @amoremagnificentbastard for your kind words on this chapter 🥰

Tag list: @zozoparsnips

Maybe being alive is the worst thing someone can be. 

If Astarion never uses the toilet again, it will still be too soon. Ugh, he feels so dirty—tainted. 

Still stuck in Hircine’s body, still subject to her body's needs, he laments his state. 

He furiously scrubs his slim body down in the bath, leaving red marks where he might have been a touch too rough and maybe taking too long to thoroughly inspect the wonderful tits now attached to his chest. Any slight movement has them swaying and the way they squeeze and conform around every touch or surface has his core quivering for something. It's so strange, the need to be filled instead of to fill. He wants so badly to slide his fingers into this heat, to know the feeling of being inside himself like that, but Hircine might not like him doing that to her body. 

So, fondling his breasts will have to do for now. It's not easy turning Hircine into a whimpering mess that begs for his cock even on their best, most lustful days when she's so tired, so overworked, and then she said she isn't attracted to her own body which certainly puts a damper on getting hot and heavy. Sex might be off the table, and while it's unfortunate to not experience such a once in a lifetime opportunity, they will be just fine without. 

He'll take this chance instead to learn what feels good in Hircine’s body so he can apply that when—not if—they return back to themselves.

Newly refreshed, Astarion towels off, but a shocking sight catches his eye.

My—no, Hircine’s reflection!

How did he not even think of the opportunity mirrors provide now?!

Trotting up to the mirror, Astarion gapes in awe at having something shown back at him, even if it isn’t exactly what he wants to see. Hircine is so lucky that he loves this beautiful face, so staring at it in adoration for much too long is no skin off his back…

Oh, he can make those jokes.

His pretty drow wife stares back at him now. Her soft, light gray skin with those rosy undertones that makes his mouth water from how inviting it is, is lit wonderfully in the bathroom candlelight, and the shiny slate and silver streaked hair long, silky and… grabbable. He loves the way her head will bend back when he takes a fistful of those locks to plant a kiss upon her lips or to sink his fangs into the sensual curve of her neck. 

Lavender eyes with a gold ring around the pupils reflect back into his gaze, catching the light perfectly. He can’t believe he ever thought them strange, and now the glow that shines so bright in the dark is always something he searches for in their quiet moments of peace in bed or on the den couch. Lavender and gold, a much better combination than the maroon that infests nearly every corner of their lives. 

Her straight, high-born nose, and her lovely plump mouth, unfortunately stained with a plum colored lipstick. He understands why she hides her natural lip color under it, but Astarion wants nothing more than to see her ghostly pale lips at all times. 

Maybe one day.

Thinking of ghostly pale, he draws his fingers down the smooth skin of her neck until he meets the ridiculously plush swell of a breast, watching as it indents with his touch. Beautiful, truly. He cups the left breast, Belbol as he’s named such a gift, and then moves on to the right one, Iiyola, his treasure. The areolas and nipples are the same bone white of her lips, with the slightest flush of pink beneath the surface. Fuck, he loves sucking on these.

Looking down, Astarion considers, could I? Just for a moment, see how it feels for him to taste his own tits… Hircine does it for him when asked, so why can't he?

Good gods, is he horny. He shakes the thought from his mind, freeing himself from the lust that threatens to overtake him.

With a fluffy, cotton robe wrapped around his body, he returns to the bedroom, throwing open Hircine’s closet to dig out a pair of panties from a dresser that he slides on quickly. 

I would much rather be naked, but I'm trying to be respectful.

Hircine stands by the fireplace, running a finger along the marble mantle. She turns, quirking an eyebrow at his appearance. “Did you bathe?”

“Yes,” he says, tightlipped, wrapping his arms around himself for some comfort.

“Wha-What happened? I thought you only needed to pee?”

He claps his hands over his ears. “Don't talk about it! It was awful and everything is ruined!”

The whole ordeal was traumatic. Astarion very badly wants to return to his vampire self. Gods, the grass really isn't greener on the other side. 

Taking pity on him, though he can absolutely see the smile she's smothering, Hircine holds out her arms, beckoning him to her. Rushing to melt into her embrace, he's not surprised to find why she likes to be held by him so much, strong arms supporting his thin frame, easily resting her chin on the top of his head so he's swallowed in solace.

What he does not enjoy is the distinct lack of heartbeat from the chest he's resting his ear against, but Hircine, his perfect girl, she never complains about such things.

Hmm, what else is his perfect girl good at? 

Oh, he knows.

Twisting his head up to rest his chin on her chest, Astarion smiles big and wide. Hircine is immediately suspicious, red eyes narrowed to slits, awaiting whatever he's about to say. “My love, can I play with my—yourself?”

“Clarify.”

“You’re so bendy. I want to try it out, you know, like when you lay on the floor in the splits or touch your toes to your head.”

“Ah, I see. Go wild, Husband.”

He purrs into her chest, “I love when you call me ‘husband’ in my voice.”

“You are so weird, Husband,” she says as a kiss is pressed to his forehead, “Off you go. Be flexible or whatever.”

Letting out a girlish shriek that they are both alarmed by, Astarion slides the lounge chair against the wall to give himself some space before settling down cross legged on the rug. Maybe he’s getting ahead of himself, now at a loss for what to do next. “So, what do I do?”

Hircine chuckles, a nice deep rumble that he likes. “I’d recommend some stretching so you don’t tear a muscle… Eugh, that’s the worst.” She sits down across from him, straightening her now much longer legs along the floor and Astarion copies the movement. “This is a perfect opportunity because I don’t think you stretch this poor body near enough.

“Now, follow my lead, Husband, but even if you feel like you can go further in your stretches, don’t strain yourself.” One leg is kept straight as the other is bent in, placing her foot against the first leg’s inner thigh. “Try not to arch your back, stay straight and lean forward to touch your toes. You should be able to wrap your hands around your foot.”

Following her verbal instructions and visual cues, Astarion stretches as she does, feeling the pull in his hamstrings. His stomach and chest are pressed against his thigh which isn’t so bad, though he’d prefer them pressed against his actual body.

She demonstrates some more stretches that they perform dutifully before Hircine gives him the go ahead to do as he pleases without wrecking her—his body.

The goal is the splits.

Returning to his feet, Astarion moves off the rug, letting his feet slip slowly out from under him sideways on the polished wood floor. He’s seen Hircine do this a thousand times, she’s always slow and steady with it. Eventually his groin meets the floor, having lowered himself all the way down. Gods, what fun! Hircine is still stretching every single muscle in her body, and Astarion clears his throat to get her attention, smiling deviously. “When we switch back, I am begging you to slide down like this onto my lap, preferably naked.”

She rolls those glinting red eyes, turning over on her side away from him to continue what she was doing in peace, the broad slopes of her back now concealing her completely.

Leaning forward so his stomach presses against the ground, he adjusts his legs out behind him, curling them up and arching his back upwards. 

And just like that, his toes are touching the top of his head.

He giggles quietly to himself, giddy at the strangeness of it. “Maybe we should start stretching together. I want to be able to do this.”

“Honestly, I expected you to be in much worse condition. If we stick to a good schedule, I bet you could be bent in half before the year is over.”

“Only if I get to bend you in half afterwards, my love~” He sings in the nice lilting tone of her voice. 

“Hmmm…” Is her only response. 

Playing around a little longer, Astarion twists this way and that, even doing what she calls a back bend with his forearms and elbows laid flat on the ground. The soreness that's plagued his body settles into a dull ache after all these tests of her flexibility.

Hircine is tense all the time. He can easily recall occasions where he’s rubbed a hand along her shoulders and remarked on the tenseness there. The body must feel so sore since Astarion is more loose…

Has he ever given Hircine a massage? Perhaps not, but now is a good opportunity to try so they can learn what the other wants.

“Pet?” He calls.

Hircine stops rolling her head around on her neck to look at him. “Yes?”

“Care for a massage? I do you, you do me?”

“Oh, that sounds nice.” Getting to her feet, Hircine points to their bed. “Does that work?”

“Yes, love. You lay down first.” He waits at the edge of the bed while she climbs up, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Actually, uhm—”

“What?” She asks.

He wets his plush lips. “Can you take the clothes off? I need to see myself naked, please!” Voice morphing into a beg, the kind she uses when she wants him to come on her face, the deviant.

Hircine sighs, the sound one he is all too familiar with from himself. 

Gods, this whole experience is strange. 

Always one to give in though, Hircine begins undressing, but that's not what he wants. Rushing forward, Astarion slaps her hands away and starts unfastening each button on his own. 

“You just wanted to feel yourself up, didn't you, Husband?” She says, easily letting him do all the work.

“Guilty as charged, my love~” Ah, the sing-songy tone is very fun. His real voice just doesn't hold those notes as smoothly. 

The shirt is quickly shucked off, baring the smooth planes of his—now Hircine's chest to him. 

Oh, he could just run his tongue over every part of that body. The chiseled pectoral muscles, flat abdominals, those tight pink nipples… He drags the tip of his fingers along every bit, the silky soft feel of his real skin a delight for the senses, making sure to circle the nipples the way Hircine likes and—

Nothing, of course. She stares at him in her usual expectant way. 

Astarion pouts. “Are you not turned on because I'm you or because I'm a woman, now?”

“Both.” Not even a speck of hesitation. 

“Eugh,” How did he end up with a misandrist that is only physically attracted to men? “What if I turned into a man?”

Those glimmering red eyes flick around the room before closing with a groan of disgust. “Then you'd look like my brother and that's even worse.”

Ah, right. 

“Fine.” He sinks into her firm chest, enjoying how it stands strong against his weight. “Hold me tight, please.”

In an instant, Hircine’s arms wrap around him, squeezing Astarion until his breath is forcefully pushed from his lungs in a grunt, and then the pressure is lessened with an “Oops, sorry,” muttered into his hair.

Is he really that strong? 

Alright, that’s enough. Astarion pulls away, holding Hircine at arms length. “Still not naked enough.”

If her pretty claret eyes could roll all the way into the back of her head, they absolutely would. 

He drops to his knees, just the same as Hircine has many nights before this, always ready to please. They can roleplay for a bit, not that it will amount to anything when Hircine won’t get into the mood. More buttons are undone, pants pulled down, and all that’s left is the underwear. Nothing special, of course, because he wasn’t expecting to be eye level with his cock anytime soon—or ever.

A glance up at Hircine, who looks a mix of bored and intrigued, if such a thing is possible. Well, it’s Hircine, so yes, it is. “Are you about to be weird?” She asks.

“Just let me do this, Hircine. Don’t say anything.” It’s a desperate plea.

“Alright. Can I lay down so you can do… whatever it is you’re about to do?”

“Yes.” He springs to his feet, catching her off guard when he shoves against sturdy chest, sending her back onto their cozy bed. The pants are ripped off completely, tossed somewhere far away before Astarion crawls up, hands on her thighs. “Let’s see what all the fuss is about, hmm?” Hircine covers her handsome face with her hands in response. 

Tsk, shy thing. 

Straddling her pale thighs, Astarion bites his lip, taking a deep breath to steady himself as his hummingbird heart hammers away at an alarming pace. The sound has always been so delightful for him, but the feel is something else entirely, not quite painful but also a little unnatural—to him at least, this is normal for his lovely Hircine if all their nights together is anything to go by.

Index fingers feather around the edge of his underwear, teasing, ready to enter at any moment. 

It’s time. He has to see it as it’s meant to be seen.

Both fingers hook under the fabric, tugging each side down to slowly and delicately reveal the hidden treasure underneath. 

For the most part, it’s the same as it's always been, just from a slightly different angle. A cock with testicles. Too bad he can’t get it hard, that’s really what he wants to see. No matter, Astarion can still take a gander. Lifting his flaccid penis, he wraps a hand around it, testing the weight within this body’s smaller grasp. The foreskin is pulled back, exposing the glans. 

Is his mouth watering? 

Astarion ignores that and the heat pooling between his legs currently. It will do him no good to want his body so badly when the one inside it won’t respond well to any advances. 

Gods, they can’t turn back to their bodies soon enough. He needs to be plunging this cock into Hircine's tight cunt now.

He looks up, an arm is thrown over her eyes while he handles his own cock with care. Different bodies be damned, this cock is all his. 

“How does it feel?” He asks in a raspy whisper, his mouth so dry from hanging open as he fights with the urge to do something he probably shouldn’t.

Hircine shrugs, indifferent. He swallows down a sigh. He loves his wife as she is.

Dropping his cock in defeat, Astarion slips the underwear the rest of the way off and—

Maybe just a little smell… He brings them to his face and inhales. The underwear also gets scented with his cologne, not that Hircine cares when she isn't all that turned on by smells the way Astarion is. Rosemary, bergamot, brandy and a touch of undeath. Not surprising.

He sighs again and tosses them into the void with the pants.

Massage time. 

Propping herself up on elbows, Hircine gives him the saddest, wettest eyes he's ever seen. Is that what he looks like when he's pleading? No wonder his poor wife bends over backwards for him—literally.

“I'm sorry, Husband. I am trying, it's just—”

Astarion halts her words with his finger pressed to her lips. “Hush, pet. There is no need to apologize for not liking something. If you aren't into it, then you aren't into it. I would never begrudge you that. Now, roll over so I can sink my hands into those muscles.” 

Always a good listener, Hircine lays face down on the bed with arms crossed under her head for some support. Straddling her hips, which are surprisingly wide comparatively to the body he’s in now—thank the gods Hircine is so flexible—Astarion runs his hands over the rippling muscles in her back. Oh, these are nice. 

The hellish, scar-tissue ‘poem’ etched into his skin is promptly ignored. He's focusing on the good today, not the bad. 

He kneads his small hands into her upper shoulders, trying to press firmly into them until she shows any discomfort, but nothing comes. “How is it?” He asks.

“A little like nothing, honestly… Am I really so weak?”  

Well, that’s disappointing. “I’ve never thought you strong, but I didn’t realize it was this bad. What should I do then? I want you to feel good.”

Lifting her head, Hircine considers what to do. “How about you walk on my back? I bet the weight would feel nice.”

“Gods, my love and her big brain… or is it my brain?” She ‘tuts’ at him as Astarion gets to his feet, balancing carefully atop her back. Even though he’s now used to her more… top-heaviness, what with the mass of hair and her ample bust, balance isn’t something he’s mastered yet, so he steadies himself on a poster of their bed frame. He plants his feet along her shoulder blades. “Is it actually alright to do this to your back?”

“I don’t know—” She groans in his own lustful voice and Astarion’s knees might give out from the sound. Why doesn’t it sound like that to his actual ears? “Ooh, but it feels so good…” If he hadn’t put on panties, slick was going to be dripping from his legs by the end of this. 

He walks up and down Hircine’s broad back, putting attentive focus onto spots that get satisfied moans and groans out of her. The feeling is so strange, just digging his heels and toes into someone’s back instead of using hands as a massage… Maybe they’ll have to do this more often if the noises are anything to go by. 

It’s really hot. This whole thing is so hot. Is he really so attracted to himself or could this possibly be some leftover remains from Hircine’s body? He doesn’t care, Astarion is loving it.

The thighs are a little too slim to fully walk on, so Astarion works a foot and heel into a thigh one at a time, slowly moving up to the real prize.

That beautiful ass. 

It’s perfect. Gods, he hasn’t—Has he even seen it outside of the sides when he twists around best he can? 

Hircine is more into his back from how her hands roam up and down the curves of muscle, trailing along his shoulder blades and spine to the dimples in the small of his back. 

Astarion much prefers the tits and arse, of Hircine and of himself, apparently. 

Settling down to his knees, Astarion roughly pinches one arsecheek and Hircine jolts, peeking over her shoulder with a sharp glare. A wide smile strains his face, probably because Hircine rarely smiles, and he takes handfuls of each of her cheeks, rolling, kneading and squeezing them around. 

He leans down and bites one right in the center—hard enough to leave teeth marks.

Hircine yelps, swatting at Astarion. “Alright, enough, you wild animal.”

“Hircine, my darling love, my sweet pet, my perfect girl,” he begs in her adorable whiney voice, “I completely understand that you aren’t able to… get it up, but can I find some release here? I-I need something, I feel like I’m melting. It’s too much.” Astarion is squeezing his thighs together, anything to help the burning within.

It does not help.

Those deep pools of ruby look over his figure, probably finding it all much too desperate. Hircine chews at a lip, the motion so similar to how she does it in her own body. “I don’t mind, but could we… do it together? I could show you what feels the best to me.”

Astarion dives into her bare chest, wrapping his arms around her neck. “Oh my gods, I love you so much. You're so perfect for me, pet. I can put my fingers in my cunt?”

“Mine or yours?”

“Yes. Both. All of it. Anything, please.”

“You're so hungry, Husband.”

“I always am for you.”

She pulls away, pinching his nose. “And you. Can I put something on, please?”

Daring a peek back down, he sighs at his cock. Wretched thing might not be getting any action tonight. “Yes. Underwear only though. I need that skin-on-skin contact.”

“Yes, my lord.” Hircine mocks in a deep, affected accent as she slides off the bed, searching for wherever he threw the underwear. 

Is that what it sounds like when he’s being a brat? No wonder she finds him so silly all the time. 

“Wait, how should it lay?” Hircine asks. His cockhead sticks straight up out of the underwear, calling to Astarion, pleading to be free once again. 

Ignoring the siren call of his own penis, Astarion laughs, beckoning Hircine over. He sticks his hand into the underwear, holding back the snort of laughter when Hircine jumps while he adjusts his cock until it rests where it should, though it’s weird from this angle. “It should just… feel right? Does it?”

“I think so? I’ll get used to it.” 

“Good. I am very excited, though I’d much rather be back in my body, shoving my fingers and tongue into your cunt instead.”

“And I would much rather have your cock down my throat, but here we are.”

Hircine dirty talking him in his own voice? Could he come from listening to her describe everything in explicit detail?

Oh absolutely, yes. That's undeniable, but he wants something inside of him. So desperately, horrifically much. His cunt is throbbing with need and he knows the panties are soaked through completely. 

“Alright, pet, tell me what to do.” He takes her face in his hands, brushing a thumb across a sharp cheekbone. This is such an amazing experience. Each and every moment will be committed to memory with perfect clarity, if only they had one of those memory shards on hand so they could rewatch this as much as they please.

“I guess it’s time for you to get naked.”

His heart soars, the rhythmic pounding vibrating through his chest. “Will you help me?”

Hircine smiles, soft and sweet and he just adores the way those eyes crinkles around the edges. “Of course, Husband.” She unties the already loosened robe completely, flicking it over and down his shoulder.

With a smug grin, Astarion squeezes his arms around his tits and shakes his shoulders so they jiggle with the movement. He likes it when Hircine does it. 

An unimpressed, raised brow is all he gets for that action. “It's just a mirror.” She mutters.

“A mirror? What do you mean?”

“I'm pretending I'm looking into a mirror. This whole thing,” she waves between the two of them, “is hurting my head. I don't know if it's helping.”

“This hurts your head, but not the—” Astarion winces when, as if summoned, Herma-Mora's discordant chittering pierces a blade through his skull.

A̴̢̭̱̘̖͙̮̭͉̙͓͇̯͙̜͒̆̂͑ǫ̷̼̜͉̦͙̊̎̓͋͗̃͛̕ͅͅb̶̢̭͈̹͖̖͑̈́͂̀͐Ý̵̡͎̪̞͓̭͈́̆̓̏̐̈́̐ͅQ̷̡͉̭̙̪̼̲̪̩̣̣̻͇͕̼͂̍̀

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he groans. “I want it to stop.”

“I rarely ever hear him when I'm… enjoying myself—outside of when I seek him out intentionally. Stop thinking about him.”

“Are you thinking of another man when I'm inside you?!” I'm right here! How could she think of that vile monster when I, a beautiful, gorgeous, heart-breaking piece of man, am by her side?!

“He's not a man, and no, that's not what I meant. Let's move—”

“Hircine, my pet, I'm all for trying out new things, but bringing your mind-invader into the bedroom is not what I—”

Seemingly had enough, Hircine finds his nipples easily and pulls. Not hard, but it's enough for Astarion's brain to pleasantly shatter, the sting of arousal striking white-hot through every fiber of his being. His limbs turn to jelly, his core is screaming for something to fill him. The lewd moan that slips from his mouth couldn't possibly be contained even if he tried when his eyes slam shut, rocking forward in the hopes that Hircine might do more.

Instead, the traitorous (wo)man leans forward with a frown, releasing her tight hold on those peaks of delight much too early. “How about we move on to what's got you so bothered instead? I can smell the change… it's strange…”

“That's how I, uh, always know you're in the mood.” He's panting. His heart’s pounding. This body is absolutely quivering for more. 

How does Hircine keep it together when she responds so wholly with her body?

“Seems like cheating when you can just smell the difference.”

He wipes some drool from the side of his mouth. “That's called a natural advantage, pet. Not my problem that your body just… weeps for me.”

“Do you want to touch yourself or not?” 

He all but launches himself into Hircine’s chest, clutching at the curls that frame her beautifully pointed ears. “Please, I need it!” If he can't have his own cock, then the fingers will have to do. 

“Alright,” she climbs onto the bed, spreading her legs and patting the spot between, “sit here, back to me.” The robe is thrown to the floor, and panties, which are soaked as expected and he beats down the urge to taste them as he always does, are thrown away before Astarion dives in, situating himself right where she asked. Her cool hands immediately slip between his thighs and pry them open with ease, knees raised and feet planted on their soft bedding. The cool air in the room meets the wetness of his cunt for a very refreshing feeling. That’s nice. 

He’s stunned and insanely turned on by the forwardness Hircine is presenting when she is always the one waiting for his command. Being in his body must make her bold. 

“To start, your hands, please, Husband.” Both her hands are held up in waiting, her lips close to his ear, speaking in heady, hushed tones that have him fighting the urge to just shove her fingers into his dripping cunt so he can fuck himself silly on them.

Astarion enthusiastically places his hands in Hircine’s, and she guides them to his heaving chest to cup each breast in a hand. “To get started, sometimes I like to squeeze and roll them around,” and they do just that in tandem, gently squeezing the soft, weighty flesh of his tits, admiring how they spill over in his smaller hands. “Harder,” she whispers, digging their fingers in, right on the cusp of too hard. His head falls back, a breathy moan and wiggling hips, his response to the alluring sensation. 

This is decadent! He can’t believe Hircine is always so quiet in bed when it feels like this. His cunt continues to clench around nothing, and Astarion can barely wait for more.

“And when that isn’t enough anymore,” she says, shifting her grip to lay his fingertips onto his nipples, “then I know this is what I need.” They brush featherlight over the tightened buds, very gently circling around the areolas and good gods, Astarion wishes he could just come from this and literally nothing else. His tits are alight with the most delightful tingle that trails like fire through his stomach and loins, and this is only his touch, not Hircine’s.

“Can you—Can you do it?” He gasps out, arching his back to rest his head on her strong shoulder and jut his chest out. If he doesn’t get some more stimulation, he might explode. 

“Oh, my poor, needy Husband… You want me to touch you?” She coos.

“Fuck—Please, I need it, Hircine!” He demands, rocking back against her, looking down to relish in the way his tits bounce with the action. Finding it within herself to be gracious, Hircine cups his breasts now, thumb and forefingers pinching over his pale nipples to twist them around. His thighs slap together when he moans loud and long and desperate, struggling to comprehend how amazing it feels with her hands on him now. She could probably rip his nipples right off and it would still be one of the best experiences to date. 

She hums, a thoughtful noise that rumbles through her throat, and he can hear the smile in her voice when she speaks next. “I don’t think we play with our ears enough…” A wet tongue snakes along the shell of his ear, shockingly tender and sensitive, and Astarion’s breath hitches. Between the ear licking and the nipple touching, it’s all so much, so perfect, so good. 

And then Hircine pushes his breasts up towards their faces, releasing him so they bounce back into place. “Do it to yourself some more.” She commands, not all that stern in case he were to reject such a thing. As if. Following instructions like the good husband he is, Astarion returns his hands to where they belong, missing Hircine’s touch, but loving his own all the same. 

While he appreciates how much Hircine is getting into this, Astarion is stunned that she is noticeably not hard against his back. How?! 

Oh, well. His pleasure is the most important right now. 

Pinching, pulling, rolling, with this body reacting by clenching, yearning, throbbing… A frantic energy is building up within him, but with his touch on his breasts only, he knows there will be no reaching the brink of satisfaction.

As usual, Hircine’s timing is good, or maybe she knows her body well enough to understand that this kind of play would not be enough. Her fingers tickle down his flat stomach and he watches at it involuntarily clenches at the funny feeling. She then stops right at the apex of his sex, drumming against the pubic bone.

“Hmm, do you want to tease or shall I?” She asks and Astarion’s heart flutters. 

“You.” His desperate response is instantaneous. Why would she ever ask when she knows it’s so much better that she do it?

One hands scoops up a breast, lightly massaging it in a firm grip, but much to his dismay, the nipple is ignored entirely while her other hand pries open his thighs once again, palm and fingers smoothing along the supple flesh of his inner thigh, occasionally circling dangerously close to his lower lips before skirting away to repeat the motion. On his own, he could see how this wouldn’t be all that exciting, but with Hircine’s strong hands initiating, it has him on the verge of begging. 

On another lazy pass by his folds, Hircine leaves her hand to rest there, but finally offers some relief from the toying by brushing the thumb on her other hand over a peaked bud, and Astarion realizes he’s been holding his breath for much, much too long, his chest constricting with need until he sucks one in with a gasp as his hips jerk up, eager for Hircine to continue.

Her quiet voice, insistent and urging, reaches him. “Touch yourself, Husband.”

Biting back a moan, Astarion does as he's told, no hesitation, digits sliding down his stomach just as she did before, aiming for that swollen, sensitive bundle of nerves that he knows gets Hircine off so well. The second his fingers make contact, crackling sparks of pleasure jolt through his body, unleashing a debauched gasp that he didn't even know Hircine’s body was capable of. 

He’ll take more of that. His fingers slip down further, swirling just outside the hungry mouth of his cunt to coat himself in slick, and that movement is carried back up to the clit, gently rubbing around it for the most glorious sensation. Hircine, not one to sit idly by, turns her attention to his tits, kneading them with fervent affection and pulling on the impossibly, hardened peaks. He’s so breathless as his hips buck, searching for some more friction. 

“Oh, fuck, Hircine, it’s so, so good!” He mewls as she tenderly pinches his nipples. “Can-Can I put my fingers inside? Please, I want it so bad!”

He can hear how she licks her lips, letting out a quiet huff of laughter. “Are you going to fuck yourself on your fingers?”

“Yes!”

“Then do it.” She whispers. 

Instantly, he sinks his middle finger inside that glorious wet heat, then another follows immediately after because Astarion is craving it so deeply. His cunt grips his fingers as they slide in and out at a slow, cautious pace, reveling in how slick and warm and hot it is. While Astarion is lost in himself, Hircine flicks her fingers across his clit and roughly twists one of his nipples with the other hand, and he is lost to the shock of overwhelming euphoria that burns its way through his body. Her strokes on his clit continue, gentle and sensuous, urging him down a path to a mind-blowing orgasm, the likes he might not have experienced before. 

A third finger is added, a comfortable stretch inside him as he seeks out that spot Hircine loves so much and gods, does he want it. The coil is tightening within his belly, and Astarion presses back into Hircine, whining and moaning and gasping, and then—

Hircine stops, stilling all her movements completely.

Astarion is a yearning, flustered mess as he removes his fingers, panting hard when no release comes to ease the overwhelming burn. “Wh-Why did you stop?!” 

“It’s not fun if you come so quickly… I like the buildup, personally.” Her cold lips meet his cheek for a loud, smacking kiss that leaves him feeling dissatisfied. 

“Tch, I want to come, not play games.” Guess he’ll have to take his pleasure into his own hands if she’s going to be evil.

Wrapping an arm over his tits and covering his clit with her hand, Hircine smiles deviously against him. “No, we’re going slow.”

He scowls, “Is this because I fingered you under the desk while that gnome was asking for an advance payment last week?”

“Hmm, well now that you remind me… Yes. It is.” Hircine nibbles at his ear, fangs scraping against the sensitive skin there so gooseflesh raises across Astarion’s body, and he shivers. Running her fingers down through his puffy folds, she dips into his cunt once, then twice, before stroking the entrance and back up to his clit, teasing gently. “Also, my dear husband, I think it’s only fair that you know what it's like to be played with.”

It’s outright vengeance. Fine, they can play. He opens his slim legs as wide as he can, offering himself up completely for whatever Hircine has planned. Her fingers have warmed up to his body temperature now as she swirls them around, making a mess of his slick all along his cunt lips and thighs, occasionally giving some much needed attention to Astarion’s clit so he whines and squirms at the pleasure that strikes through his nerves.

Touch like this could feel just as good in his own body, but maybe it's the thrill, the strangeness, of being different that has him singing so much for each stroke, swipe and pinch. Hircine is rarely ever interested in self-pleasure unless he asks for a show, so the fact that she’s able to toy with him so well like this, knowing exactly the buttons to push, is a wonderful surprise. 

If it’s some advanced level of torture she’s learned or the height of absolute delight, Astarion is brought so close to the edge of oblivion, only to be brought back down again and again… and again, while Hircine whispers sweet nothings and taunts into his ears.

Whether her vengeance has been sated or she just knows he’s had enough, Hircine nuzzles her nose into his neck, trailing up until she murmurs in that decadent and deep voice. “Had enough, Husband?”

“Please.” A whispering plea slips past his lips, chest heaving and sweat clinging to his body as she works him over so thoroughly. Slickened fingers are brought to his mouth, and Astarion opens, keen to taste that nectar he so eagerly feasts on any other night. Musky, salty and sweet, not quite the same as it is when he’s tasting with his own tongue, but delicious all the same. Seeking out her lips, they meet in a slow, heated kiss to share his arousal. 

Hircine hums when she breaks away, red eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Different… Interesting. I’ll stop playing with you now.”

He melts into her chest, drawing circles over one of his pale nipples with an index finger, “Oh, thank the gods, I’m rea—Ah!” She buries two fingers inside his cunt before he can finish speaking, curling them up just right to hit that spot inside, while the other hand seeks out the rosy bud at the apex of his sex, rubbing it perfectly between her fingers. Astarion’s been kept mercilessly at the edge of bliss, so these intent ministrations by Hircine shoves him right over. 

His eyes screw shut while a choked cry echoes out into their bedroom as he comes, writhing in her arms when shockwaves of his orgasm overtake this body. Stars are seen, breath is trapped in his chest, and his nails dig into his tits while each rippling wave sends him reeling in euphoria. The two stroking fingers inside of his core are constricted as the walls of his cunt pulse in tune with his fluttering heartbeat, ebbing slowly to an occasional twinge as Hircine helps him ride each crest, before it abates fully, and Astarion is left a trembling and limp pile of limbs.

Eventually enveloped in a tight embrace, Hircine holds him close, placing sweet pecks to his temple. “Was that what you wanted?”

He groans and swallows to wet his dry throat, feeling like dropped jelly. “Does… it always feel like that?”

“Sometimes.”

“Fuck, that’s amazing.” Finally some sense is returned to his loose arms and legs, and Astarion curls up against Hircine, feeling purely satisfied. “Thank you, my love.” His eyes are already growing heavy, all the energy drained from his body after that mind-bending orgasm. 

Maybe after a short nap, everything will return to normal.

[spacedoutman]

Never too young to die | Oc X Velvet von Ragnar (Part 1)

Penny. The disappearance of the love of her life never stopped haunting top-secret agent Helena “Leni” Hé. What happens when the ghost of her past comes back to not only haunt her, but put everything Leni had ever fought for on the line? What happens when that ghost is the psychopathic Velvet von Ragnar?

Can she stop herself from falling for her again?

Gonna start posting parts here after arguing with people on Facebook.

Warnings: Dark subjects such as abuse, addiction and mental health struggles.

Where would that girl end up? Hopefully, whatever happened, it would be the best it could possibly be. Leni’s mind whisked her away like a hurricane. Penny. Maybe her name would change at some point, right? Maybe, she’d wind up in a prestigious college and move on to never worry about anything again.

Maybe, hopefully, she could use dollar bills as makeup wipes and reassure Leni there was a lot more in the bank and that there was nothing to worry about.

Click. The door pulled Leni’s hand like it was its life mission to slam. Leni fought a war to ease it shut. She locked it. Her heart almost burst from her chest like a bullet. Of course, she had no problem with that. Penny didn’t look like a penny. Leni turned around. There was no way in hell she looked like a Penny.

The dim overhead light touched her features, reflecting her dull eyes and dying her smokey eye-shadow brown. Her white teeth shone between her full lips as a hazy grin ran across them, emphasizing her smile lines. What would her eyes look like if they smiled too? Penny looked more like a Theodora, Evangeline or Maria. If she were a Theodora, her nickname would be Theda.

She looked nothing like Theda Bara. Hell, she should’ve been standing in the driveway of a gilded mansion though, not some dumpy gas station bathroom. Penny’s features were far softer than even Leni’s warm gaze. She’d definitely look stunning in some of Theda’s outfits, that was for sure. Maybe she moved like Theda too. Quiet humming took over. Leni’s heart still rushed with adrenaline.

Penny somehow looked exhausted. Leni cupped her face and pulled her over. Her lips against Penny’s was what heaven was. The smell of lavender conquered the slight hint of mold.

Penny melted into her. Leni grasped her shoulders and pulled her in more. Closer was written all over Leni’s mind. Fire raged in their kiss. Leni’s hands raced through Penny’s curly jet hair. Penny’s arms hung loosely around her neck. Time stopped. Mint overwhelmed Leni’s taste buds in the best way possible. Leni would never pull-

Penny pulled away. Leni cupped her face. Penny’s eyes hung half-shut as she gazed through her thick lashes. Her brows drew together slightly and her lips rested parted. She was drunk on her presence. Leni’s head spun enough to erase the stained up white-ish and brown walls. A soft grin spread across her face. “I just wanted to let you know how beautiful you are.”

Penny looked down for a moment. “I had my eye one of those blue sparkly cars outside.“ Penny said a bit absentmindedly. “You know, those fancy ones?”

“Is that your way of telling me you love me?” Leni teased, Penny gave an airy giggle.

“We’ll definitely get married next then.”

Married. That word sent a slew of happy memories through Leni’s head. Like, running her hands through Penny’s hair even when it grayed, or taking her sweet little honeysuckle to any city she even mentioned. Penny blinked long and slow. Leni couldn’t wipe away her grin. “But wait.” Penny’s eyes widened a bit. She looked down and to the side, her brows pressing down.

“No way. If we did, everyone would be able to tell we were a couple. Our names sound too alike.” She mumbled as if it were the second coming of Jesus (or third).

Leni giggled. She tilted Penny’s chin up. Penny looked up at her, her smile faded by now. “That doesn’t matter.” Leni shrugged. “If we went somewhere far away from here, it wouldn’t even matter. Plenty of Pennies and Lenis hang out all the time.”

“That’s true, Helena, but wouldn’t it raise a lot of suspicion?”

“Just as much suspicion as us being in this bathroom together.” Leni replied, matter of factly but still playfully. “The way I look at you has probably given us away.”

Penny looked down with a little smile. Leni’s hand slid, stopping at her upper arm. Penny leaned into her touch. “Every time I look at you, I hear an angel’s chorus.”

“I can say the same for you.” Penny looked up at her. “What would we do after we got married?”

“What married couples normally do.” Leni joked. “But the rest? We’ll figure it out.”

“Take it day by day.”

“Yeah...” Leni reassured in a dreamy sigh.

Penny rested her hands on the rim of the bathroom sink and sat down. Leni looked up at her. Penny sighed, looking away at nothing. Her pupils unfocused. “There’s not enough room for me.” Leni said playfully. Penny scooted—Leni moved her right back, eyes still wide. “Don’t hurt yourself!” Penny burst into chuckles before looking up at the ceiling and sitting against the mirror.

“I’ll never have to visit another art museum, I can tell you that for sure.” Leni said with delight, stepping beside her and sweeping up her hand (carefully).

Penny looked down at her before bursting into chuckles. Music to Leni’s ears. Leni joined her gladly. “I don’t think anyone’s going to notice our absence.” She shrugged. “We could stay here all night.”

“Does anyone really come in here?” Asked the concerned Penny.

“Drew probably would.” Leni joked. If Penny were drinking something, she would’ve spit it out.

Penny smiled and raised an eyebrow as if she were reprimanding her. Leni rested a hand on her jaw, caressing her cheek with her thumb. “Don’t you have curfew?-” “Curfew my ass.” Leni scoffed. “I’m twenty something and still crashing on mom’s couch.” Leni’s eyes widened a bit. “Oh,--speaking of!”

Penny leaned close. Leni laid the tip of her pointer finger on her chest and pushed her back gently. “Wait.” Leni cooed. “Better yet, close your eyes and give me your hands.” Penny looked away and closed her eyes. She raised her hands. Leni opened her palms and reached into her oversized leather jacket. Penny shrunk a bit.

“Are you getting me a lighter?” Penny huffed, trying to pull a hand away.

“Even better. Cigarettes for days.”

Shiny pearls clicked as Leni laid a what, two or three-hundred year old necklace?, in Penny’s palms. She closed her hands carefully and eased them against her chest. “That feels weird.” Penny whispered humorously… but maybe a little awkwardly.

“Open your eyes.”

Penny looked down. Her jaw could’ve hit the floor as she gasped. “I don’t believe it! You know how much your mother values this thing-”

“I know.” Leni assured, anger sprinkled into her calm voice. “She’ll grieve more than if I got into some freak accident. But as this point, I think she deserves it.”

Leni waited for some optimism to leave Penny. Penny held the necklace close to her chest. She closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath of the crisp air. “Well, if some freak accident happens, you can count on me to hold it dear.” Penny said in a honey-drenched voice, quiet enough to be a whisper.

“You know if you sell it, you can get a place out of here.” Leni said quickly.

Penny held it tighter. “You won’t ever have to worry about any of those pricks again.” She grew assertive. Her chest tightened. “Not only that, you can get your ass to college and-”

“Leni.” Penny’s little voice rained on the flame. “Everything’s okay.”

Leni’s expression softened. “You’re right.” She bit her lip. “It is okay.” Penny leaned in. Leni cupped her face. She glanced at the necklace which shone like stars in the light. Penny clutched it tightly, yet her hands were as gentle as a dove’s wings. Leni’s shoulders drooped. She looked away for a moment before composing herself.

She rubbed Penny’s cheek with her thumb. Penny closed her eyes, savoring her touch. Leni leaned in, planting a little kiss on her nose. Her thumb hit something rough. Leni forced herself to look. A couple band-aids clung to Penny’s cheek. Only two showed themselves. The rest were hidden under Penny’s sweater. At least there weren’t as many as typical.

Hopefully, there wouldn’t be as many bruises this time either. Leni felt as dizzy as she would if she spun. She closed her eyes before-

Leni yanked the glass off the nightstand. Her lungs collapsed as she heaved for air. Her hands shook like mad as she raised the glass to her mouth. Her gasps echoed like her head was a chamber. She chugged. The water failed to help her dry throat. The glass slipped from her hand, crashing against her leg then rolling off and onto the bed.

Darkness touched the pretty neat room, melting it all into an ugly blur.

Where did that girl end up? She could still see Penny as well as she could a picture. Leni rested a hand on her chest, slowing her breathing and closing her eyes. She laid her head back. It was just as easy to remember her trembling hands as she sat on the sofa of that old trailer, waiting for the effects of whatever her mother took to sweep away her grief.

Leni wiped the tears from her eyes. Another deep breath. She’d be lying if she denied feeling a leftover bit of that dread every time one of those blasted memories rolled around. She climbed out of bed. The thick blankets rolled off her. She pulled herself over to the window, taking the dramatic curtains and sweeping them open.

Golden lights shone like stars as they lined the yard. The pool water shone deep blue, touching the cobblestone pavement around it. The moonlight clung to the neatly placed pool chairs, reflecting off the silver grills and shining through the umbrellas that shielded the spotless glass tables. Lush rose bushes watched behind the white picket fences. She breathed deeply, swearing she could smell them from here.

Penny would smile. Why was she still thinking about Penny-

“Mom?”

Leni lowered the magazine. The sun beat down angrily. She looked up at Cliff through her sunglasses and smiled happily. Neon green and purple pool noodles were stuffed under his arms. “I’m going to do something crazy.” He said, bursting with confidence. Leni grinned widely and nodded.

“You know what?”

“What?”

Leni rested an arm on the arm of the pool chair and shut the magazine. “Don’t forget the propeller you were building.” She said playfully. “I think it’s in the garage.” He nodded as if he were taking notes.

“Alright, see you, mom!”

“See you, Cliff. Good luck!”

Cliff gave a rushed nod and scampered off. Leni opened the magazine and looked down. She couldn’t get the grin off her face. Helena “Leni” Hé had seen more than her fair share of things as a top-secret agent. But she’d won in life. She’d succeeded. She had her son, her mansion and hella cash. So why was the memory of Penny, the girl that disappeared all those years ago, still haunting her?

[you-aremy-sunshine]

#5 - i hate your big dumb combat boots - b.b.

summary: you have met this man once in your life, at a bar after you passed out. and the second time you meet him it definitely is less pleasant. thankfully you never ever have to see him again. except now you are forced on a plane with him to the mediterranean because the tickets are non-refundable. fuck this.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 1.3k

a/n: oh my lord. guys i am so sorry. everything just like slipped my mind. anyways enjoy!! join my taglist!

you got up from the breakfast table, “i’m gonna go change,” you angled your head towards the door of the bedroom, “also, bucky i have some activities planned for today, so you should too.”

he nodded, picking up his plate and utensils.

four bikini options were laid out in front of you. what am i going to wear? subconsiously, you wanted to look good for bucky, or any other hot guy that happened to pass by you. but mostly bucky.

your options consisted of the floral bikini you wore last time, a lavender colored one, a sage green bralette bikini, and a light blue triangle bikini with a tropical flower.

you chose the lavender triangle bikini, it fit pretty similar to the floral one. you felt confident in how you looked, your hair still a bit messy from sleep. you slashed some tap water on it and ran your fingers through it. on top of your bathing suit you threw on a cute little linen white skirt and a flowy tank. a bit of your mid section showed, enough to induce looks but still look casual.

you quickly did a light bit of beach makeup, sprayed a bit of perfume, grabbed your beach towel and got out of the room.

“bucky, the room’s free,” you called out, preoccupied with vila, kaiya and sol’s texts.

“yeah, ok.” he replied, drying off the last of the dishes.

you packed a bag for the both of you. towels, sunscreen, water, snacks and extra clothes were what was shoved into an insanely small beach bag.

“bucky, i need an extra change of clothes for you,” you called out to the room, “we’re probably gonna get dirty.”

he grunted in reply, walking out of the door in a matter of minutes. he sported a fitted black tee with those short ass swim trunks. you know the ones that show off a guy’s whole leg. the shorts displayed his muscular thighs, along with a tattoo of a snake biting a butterfly. he threw a ratty gray-blue towel over his sholder.

how come you never noticed this tattoo?

now at this point it was becoming noticeable to him that you were inspecting him, maybe even checking him out.

“why are you looking at me like that,” he turned to face you.

“i don’t know, i just never noticed your tattoos.” you glance shifted from his eyes to a new tattoo you spotted. it kind of looked like a quote, “the snake one is pretty cool.”

his face lit up, “thanks, i recently got these yin and yang koi fish on my arm.” he showed the inside of his arm. the tattoo itself was a little bit swollen and red but you probably couldn’t tell from afar.

you only had two tattoos, one emily dickinson quote on the inside of your wrist, and the second a simple line art of flowers and leaves down your spine.

“i saw another one on your other arm, what does it say?” you asked, not trying to probe.

“oh yeah! it’s an emily dickinson quote, my sister rebecca loved her poetry.” he said, a gentle smile lifting his rough features.

“no fucking way, i have an emily dickinson quote too,” you said, a bit excited that he had something in common.

“what quote is it?” he asked.

“unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality.” you recited, having the line already memorized.

“that one is one of my favorites, mine is ‘dying is a wild night and a new road’” he repeated off of his arm, “i forgot it was there for the longest time.” he said this with a bittersweet expression.

“i didn’t know that you had a sister,” you replied “yeah, i don’t know, i don’t usually talk about her a lot,” he said, his features fell gracefully, “she passed in a car accident a few years back.”

you rubbed the spot where your dickinson quote was, “i’m sorry,” you said, looking up at him. his moonstone eyes shifted uncomfortably.

“yeah she was the best,” he said softly, “but, anyways let’s get going. i don’t want to be late for whatever you have planned for us.”

he passed you his towel to put in the bag, then led the two of you out the door. you had ordered an Uber, so the driver was already waiting for you when you got to the street. it was a small car, so the two of you were kind of squshed together in the backseat.

many bumps and “sorry’s” later you arrived to kythnos. lyra helped you set this up as well as a few other tourist-y things to do for the rest of the week. you paid the driver before getting out.

you both stepped out of the car and admired the view. the mediterranean was breathtaking, especially here. it was clear, yet turquoise, practically begging for you to jump in.

“scuba diving! what do you think?” you turned to bucky, asking for his opinion.

“yes, this is amazing,” he said, his sunglasses already on, “thanks.”

you led bucky down to the shore where the instructor was about to start demonstrating how to put on the gear, etc.

let's pretend for this that you n buck have scuba licenses 🙏🙏

you took your shorts off and put on the gear. you set your clothes in the bag and placed it closer to land, so the bag would not get wet.

bucky put on his scuba gear too, and followed after you.

the boat was close to shore, tied to a pole farther to the entrance to the beach. you hopped in, bucky following after you. there were already a handful of people in the boat. three sisters, you assumed, were sitting next to each other, talking animatedly amongst them. one had light brown hair, another dark brown, and the other had pink and brown hair. you could tell they were speaking spanish. next to them were an older looking couple, the man had a salt and pepper beard and the lady had red hair with streaks of gray and white peeking through. they were talking too, but a bit more calm than the three sisters. the intructor from the shore started pushing the boat, and then hopped on. the boat engine started and the instructor began to tell the group about the islands, what fish there are, all things interesting.

you gazed out onto the water, the sky was a bit dull, but you checked the weather before and it said it was going to clear up.

the first stop to the diving trip was gorgeous, the water was turquoise and so clear. there were countless fish and sea animals.

the second stop was the same, but different fish, and the water went deeper, and the water was cooler.

the final stop was insane, there were statues almost but they were 50 ft underwater.

the tour ended around 3pm, the two of you eager to eat lunch.

you ate quickly at a street food place, and then walking back to the little bungalow.

“so…” you asked, “what did you think?”

“that was perfect in everyway,” he replied, “would relive again 10/10. but, now its my turn for a surprise trip.”

“oh god,” you sighed, “what does that mean…”

“not much, just a little dinner,” the two of you reached the door, “i found it online, and it seems like its perfect.”

“okay,” you had to put a little trust in him, after all he couldn’t be awful at planning.

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